The Detective And Me
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: John Watson is minding his own business, working towards medical school, when a certain foreign someone blows into town and turns his life upside down. Johnlock (Always Johnlock. And always a tiny side of Mystrade. And madness. Endless madness. You know my methods). American!John, Prince!Sherlock, Unilock. Fluff fluff fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**LINDA, THE GUEST THAT IS CURRENTLY BLOWING THROUGH EVERY SHERLOCK STORY I'VE WRITTEN AND REVIEWING TO EVERY CHAPTER. I NEED YOUR ATTENTION!**

 **Please sign into your account so I can PM you. You are wonderful and I want to thank you for all the reviews.**

 **Okay that's all.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

 **I know. I've not posted a new Johnlock in an age. And I make my comeback with this crack fic. Infinite apologies. M** **y AUs get more and more ridiculous over time. I can't help it. They're so much fun. If you don't like it, don't read it. If you do, then here's my madness all laid out for you.**

 **Basically what happened was I watched _The Prince And Me_ (2004, Julia Stiles, it's really cute and chick flicky don't judge me) and decided for some reason that it was a great idea to put John and Sherlock into the same context. Don't ask me. I just. Yeah. You don't have to have seen the movie to understand the story though, which is why I'm not labeling it a crossover. Just know that the premise of this is based on a film and it wasn't my idea. **

**So that's my explanation for this story.**

 **American!John, Nymphomaniac!Danish!Prince!Sherlock, AmericanCollegeAU.**

 **Oh, another warning. I've never been to Denmark, I've never met a Dane, I know nothing about Danish culture. I did a little research, but that only goes so far. Sherlock is only the prince of Denmark because that's from the movie this is inspired by. I will try to make no assumptions about the culture or anything, and if I accidentally do, please don't be insulted by the inaccuracy. He could be prince of Zimbabwe for all it matters in the context of this story. So ye be warned.**

 **Rated T for language of the coarse and/or sexual variety. Because I'm not going to smut this story up. Worry not, I've got a smutty story in the works after I finish this (I'm going to finally post the next chapter of Stealing Toys soon).**

 **Anywho. Longest Author's Note ever. Without further ado, enjoy.**

* * *

"Of course, Your Highness."

When Sherlock heard this, he didn't know whether to smirk or growl. Because on the one hand, it meant he was right, but on the other hand, for probably the first time he didn't want to be.

Sherlock had to admit that for once in his life, he had been really stupid about something. I mean, it had to happen sometime. Even he wasn't perfect—though he would never admit it aloud.

But Sherlock had been under the naïve, slightly ridiculous impression that people were intrigued by him. By all he saw. He spouted off deductions left and right since he was small and people around him had ooh-ed and ah-ed and he was sure they were actually captivated.

What a dunce he had been. Eight whole years of living before he realised the truth.

People were just humouring him. Nobody thought his deductions were interesting. Many people thought they were clever lies, or that he somehow found ways to snoop secrets out of people's lives. He was the prince, after all. He had to have ways of getting information he shouldn't have.

But even people who knew he wasn't making it up hated them. They thought he was a little brat and were never once impressed by all the things he knew just by observing.

But they always acted like they were.

Maybe Sherlock could handle it if they had always told him how they thought he was lying—or if they knew he wasn't, that they just thought he was a big prat—but no. Every person in his life had pretended to enjoy it because he was the prince and they couldn't say otherwise. Even Mummy and Father didn't care. In fact, especially them. They were too busy being monarchs. God, it was all so tediously boring.

But anyway, Sherlock had finally realised the one thing he had always been missing. He had the hypothesis formulating for months now, but it wasn't until his eighth birthday that he tested it out.

And what he did was say the cruelest thing he could imagine to his personal servant, Geoffrey. He was one of those people that looked far older than he was due to an unfortunate life story—he wasn't even twenty five yet at the time and he looked like he was at least thirty. And Sherlock told the man that his wife was cheating, that his father never loved him, that his brother was never going to call back, and that most of his friends only still spent time around him because they pitied him.

He had already known two out of four of those things. The other two had knocked him in the gut. Sherlock watched it happen.

And still, he said: "Of course, Your Highness."

God, Sherlock was an idiot. Mycroft had been telling him for a long time that nobody actually could stand the sight of him and that if he wanted to make any political standing he'd best watch his tongue. Not that Sherlock cared about the last part. With an elder brother, he never had to worry about ascending to the throne. But he had been sure that other people were amazed by his intellect… and they weren't. Not one.

Mycroft would immediately know and Sherlock would never hear the end of it.

But the realisation was enough to make Sherlock decide that there was even less point in having a filter than before. If people were insisting on lying to his face his entire life, there was no reason to spare their feelings.

And Sherlock certainly didn't.

Sherlock spent his teenage years doing whatsoever he pleased, not caring what his parents or the tabloids or the whole bloody country thought of it. He had his string of male lovers in open public, fucking them and then forgetting them just for the thrill of it. He showed up at crime scenes to deduce them with an added bonus of annoying the hell out of the police. He spat in the face of every tradition just because he could and none of it really even mattered because Mycroft was to be King, not him, so what difference did it make?

Well, until it did make a difference.

Kind of like how Mycroft was completely healthy… until he wasn't.

* * *

Sherlock didn't really forget names on accident. Come on, of course he didn't, not with a mind like his. He purposely deleted them, just for fun.

This one was burly and chiseled and hardly talked. Fairly decent in bed. Sherlock almost regretted seeing him go, just because a good fuck who didn't try to talk before or after was basically what Sherlock had always dreamed of.

But Sherlock was the prince. The truth was he could be the biggest prick on the planet and men would still line up to bed him.

He was watching as the man made his walk of shame out of the hotel when he got a call. He rolled his eyes and answered, "You know I prefer to text."

Sherlock had assumed it was Mycroft.

Incorrectly.

"You're needed at the palace, Your Highness. Immediately."

It was Geoffrey. The poor sod had detested Sherlock for fifteen years for what he'd said about his wife/father/brother/friends—he was now an almost forty year old that looked almost fifty—and still had to pretend he didn't. It was almost funny to watch.

"Mycroft doesn't usually make you do his dirty work. What's this about?"

"I've been asked not to disclose that."

"Mycroft's got no power over you, you're _my_ —"

"Not by His Royal Highness. By the King."

Sherlock stopped short there. "Wait. You mean _Father_ needs to speak with me?"

Sherlock could feel Geoffrey getting impatient, which made Sherlock want to chuckle.

"Immediately, if you please, Your Highness."

"Right, right, yes." Then Sherlock paused before adding, "The fact that you're calling means you couldn't find me this time."

See, Sherlock wasn't supposed to go anywhere without Geoffrey. Because of this rule, it'd become a hobby of Sherlock's to get away from him as often as possible, but the desire to escape his clutches was less casual if he was going to meet someone for sex. Some warped form of decency? Maybe. Or maybe just a new formula to torture his servant. Either one, really.

But anyway, Geoffrey had an annoying knack for being able to find him most of the time. Probably he had someone tailing Sherlock almost all the time—almost being the operative word. Even when you were a genius, there was only so much you could do to hide from an entire secret service. But Sherlock finally got lucky and nobody was watching when he left.

Sherlock thought he heard a sigh through the phone. He must've been really peeved now. Geoffrey didn't usually let himself show emotion. "True, I couldn't. Does that mean you would like to walk back, Highness?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and told Geoffrey the address he should be picked up at. "Very good. I shall arrive shortly."


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm so bad at waiting to post updates. I could never be that person that posts once a week.**

 **I can hardly be that person that posts once a day.**

 **Lord help me.**

* * *

"Ah, William, there you are," Father said. Ah, so they were going to start like that, were they? Sherlock always hated the name William and took to using his more interesting middle name in his youth. Nobody called him William but his parents and it always put him in a mood.

Seeing his parents and his brother in one room was not a common occurrence outside of official business. Sherlock, were he an emotional person, might've been overwhelmed by all three mighty presences at once.

As it were, it made for too much stupid in the room and he hoped this meeting wouldn't take long. Well, okay, Mycroft was actually the smart one of the two of them, loathe as Sherlock was to admit it, but he was dull and that was basically worse than stupid.

Plus, Sherlock noticed immediately that Mycroft's presence was not as mighty as usual. Mycroft, who was more than ten years Sherlock's senior and was pushing both the age of forty and the weight of two hundred kilos, was lacking his usual aura of power and cunning.

In fact, he looked unwell.

Sherlock figured it out then.

"How long have you known?" asked Sherlock to Mycroft.

"I've suspected for some time, but the doctors only just found out last week."

Sherlock probably should've asked exactly what was wrong—he knew Mycroft had a life threatening illness, but didn't know what it was and it was usually good etiquette to figure out what your brother was dying from.

Sherlock didn't do that though. Instead he said, "Are you beginning to regret the extra slices of cake now?"

Mycroft gave a tight smile. "Even those such as I are vulnerable to the comforts of royalty, brother mine." Mycroft then took a big whiff of the air, the scent of sweat and cock that was surely coming off of Sherlock that any attuned nose would catch. "Clearly you are too, from that stench. We both are weak to sins of the flesh—you just happen to have a different sort of appetite."

"Sucking a dick every once in a while won't make _me_ the size of a barge," Sherlock mumbled very loudly in Geoffrey's direction, pretending to be discreet.

"Enough bickering," the King said in a tired manner.

"The point," the Queen inserted, "is that though you've not had to worry about succession before now, there is a chance that Mycroft will not…" She paused, clearly looking for words other than 'might die before he can be King'. She went with, "Will not be fit to take the throne. Which means you."

Sherlock, being as clever as he was, really should've realised earlier in the conversation what this was about. But it honestly never occurred to him that his parents would even consider him for the throne. If Mycroft croaked, wouldn't they hold some sort of contest to pick some other sucker to be the monarch? Because Sherlock had put in a lot of effort his whole life trying to prove that he would make a very poor King. It really was a hindrance to any monarchy that blood meant so much because some random man on the street would likely be a better candidate than Sherlock. At least the random person would possibly have a fuck to give when Sherlock definitely did not have one to spare.

"You said there's a chance he won't be fit," Sherlock mused aloud. "Which means it's not a sure thing he'll bite the dust."

Father clenched his jaw and Mummy flinched at Sherlock's word choice. They were both rather fond of Mycroft and probably didn't appreciate Sherlock being so crude about the subject.

"Major lifestyle changes could result in a full recovery," Mycroft agreed.

"Then I suggest you get on that," Sherlock said with a wry, mirthless smile.

"But," Mycroft added when Sherlock had started to turn around, "considering there's the fate of an entire country resting on this, a soft maybe won't quite do, will it? There's a distinct possibility that it's too late for me." Father put his hand on Mycroft's shoulder in a supporting manner and Mycroft pretended to appreciate it with dead eyes.

Sherlock's eyes rolled. "With the amount of money we have, it's rather a shock we let this get so far, don't you think? A few more visits to the doctor and this all could have been avoided."

"Be that as it may, that isn't really the point at present," Father said, irritation in his voice now. "Make as many excuses as you want, William, but like it or not there's a real possibility that you shall become the heir to my throne and your attitude is frankly abhorrent."

"Big word," Sherlock grumbled mockingly.

"Enough, Willaim!" he barked in reply. "Not sending your brother to the doctor was not the only mistake we've made with our sons, unfortunately. We've allowed you to muck about like a child for too long and now that you're needed by your country, you're clearly not mature enough to handle it."

"Maturity isn't the issue, it's whether I care to do it, and I don't."

"No, you're wrong, maturity _is_ the issue. You're twenty-three years old and you do nothing but hinder police business and fuck and it's _got to stop_."

"But you know that it won't, so what are we all doing here? You know your words will do nothing to change my behaviour. If you don't know it, surely Mycroft does. So what is the actual point of this lovely family gathering?"

That was when Sherlock saw Mycroft smile and, for the first time in this conversation, got quite nervous about what was to happen. Nothing made Mycroft look happy like that… unless he had a plan for Sherlock that even the young genius couldn't avoid. Were they going to throw him in prison until he behaved? They had to know that wouldn't work.

"Your brother had an idea, and since I've not got any options left, we're going to try it."

"Okay…" Sherlock prompted, annoyed that he didn't already know what was going on.

"We think," Mummy said, "that you need a dose of humility."

"Probably," Sherlock agreed, at which point his whole family glared at him. He rolled his eyes, but stayed silent.

"So we're sending you somewhere where nobody knows who you are," Mummy explained. "No more royal treatment."

"You can't be sure nobody will know me. I've made headlines once or twice, after all."

"If we send you far enough away," Father said, "we can be very close to certain."

"Somewhere where nobody knows the names of any European royalty unless they have a big wedding to watch on telly," Mycroft added, clearly quite proud of his idea.

Sherlock thought for another moment before it came to him. "America. You're sending me to America."

Mycroft's grin spread enough to show teeth and Sherlock knew he was right. God, _America_? That sounded duller than anything imaginable.

"And what am I to do there, twiddle my thumbs?"

"Actually," Mycroft said, "you're to study Chemistry at Fanstord University."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. He'd already studied political science at a local university, but it'd been very dull indeed. He'd wanted to go for Chemistry, but his parents hadn't allowed it because it had nothing to do with being prince. So that actually sounded… not completely miserable. Fanstord was one of the top science schools in the world.

That part must've been Mummy's idea.

"Fanstord… California, right?" asked Sherlock.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed.

"And how do you keep me from telling everyone I'm royalty the moment I arrive?" asked Sherlock.

Mycroft grinned again like he'd been rather hoping Sherlock would ask that question. "Because you've never been around people who don't know you're a prince and you want to know what it's like. You would never sabotage a research opportunity."

"Plus," Father added, "Gregory will be coming with you to keep you in line."

"Who?" asked Sherlock, but everyone ignored him.

"We've been making the arrangements for the past few days," Mummy said. "The semester conveniently starts in a week. You'll be flying out tonight so you don't have time to try to get out of it."

Now that he knew he was studying Chemistry at a top university, he didn't honestly want to get out of it—this was hardly even a punishment—but he didn't say so. "I'm assuming I'm to be sent without any money," he said instead.

"I hope you don't think so little of us that you think we would send you away with nothing at all," Father said reproachfully.

"You'll have enough to live comfortably," Mummy agreed. "Well, somewhat."

"Somewhat?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh, let me tell him," Mycroft pleaded, sounding like a child.

"Mycroft, don't be cruel," Mummy scolded, but he spoke over her.

"You'll be living on campus. With a meal plan and communal toilets… And a _roommate_."

Sherlock's lip curled.

No. That just wouldn't do. He took it all back. This could not be happening. He knew it was all too good to be true. A _roommate_? Never.

"I won't," Sherlock said. "You can't make me."

"I can and I will," Father threatened. "Take him to the plane," he said to Geoffrey.

"Now? Right now? But what about packing?" Sherlock said desperately. If he were just allowed to go to his room he could definitely make an escape plan—

"We've packed for you."

"What about—"

"No, William. Now is the time," Father said. "I only hope you can learn a thing or two from this experience. Take him, Gregory."

"And who the hell is Gregory?" Sherlock snapped, turning and looking around for someone other than Geoffrey as he was tugged out of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

So it turned out Geoffrey's name wasn't Geoffrey. It was Gregory Lestrade. Sherlock had apparently deleted it and replaced it in his mind for his entire life. He would probably delete it again now under normal circumstances…

But Geoff—sorry, _Gregory_ —was coming to America with him and he'd been given express permission to treat him just like anyone else.

Which meant that Gregory Lestrade was not required to wordlessly put up with Sherlock's shit anymore.

"I'm bored," Sherlock declared an hour into the plane ride.

"I don't bloody well care," Lestrade replied. He had taken the window seat after Sherlock expressly asked for it.

They were in a public aeroplane, which Sherlock had never been inside. It was amazing how easy it would be to sabotage the thing. Why people trusted them he would never understand.

His parents were at least merciful enough to put him in first class, but still, there were so many _people_ around. And Sherlock was sitting there having waking nightmares about what kind of roommate he was going to have and what kind of slop would be fed to him in a mess hall. Lestrade had his money, and though he was not permitted to refuse him _everything_ as revenge for the last several decades of torment, he was allowed to discern if the item Sherlock wanted to purchase was necessary—and if it was a non-necessity, Lestrade was the one who decided if Sherlock deserved a treat.

Sherlock had a feeling Lestrade would be very harsh about whether something was 'necessary'. He wouldn't think inedible food at his school would be an emergency. And surely he would never think Sherlock deserved a treat, so casual spending money was likely to be nonexistent.

"If I'm to pose as ordinary," Sherlock said to Lestrade, "how do I explain you following me around everywhere?"

Lestrade seemed to think this was worth responding to—since he'd been ignoring everything Sherlock had to say for hours now. "Dunno, maybe we'll tell everyone you're mentally handicapped and need an escort."

"You're right unpleasant when you're not lying through your teeth all the time," Sherlock noted. "No wonder it didn't work out with your wife."

Lestrade turned to him, his jaw tense. "Holmes, I've wanted to toss you out a window for a very long time now. Another word about her and I'll do it."

"You'd be thrown in prison for poking me," said Sherlock easily.

"His Royal Highness has given me specific permission to punch you if you get too unpleasant. It was the incentive that made me agree to come with you."

Sherlock scoffed. Mycroft clearly thought of everything. "I still hope you have a plan for how you're going to explain your constant presence."

Lestrade glared for another long moment before relaxing back into the seat, apparently too tired to keep up the tough act. "You're foreign and wealthy," he said. "You don't have to be royalty to need a handler. Think of me as your bodyguard."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you're my bodyguard, I'll surely die within the month."

"Oi, I was a cop before I got saddled with taking care of you. The King asked for me personally because he thought I was the only man who could handle you. I thought it was an _honour_ at the time… what a bunch of rubbish."

Sherlock had deduced that he was an officer before he started working as Sherlock's personal servant, but had never thought about it much. He'd cycled through dozens of servants when he was little—even the esteem of His Royal Majesty wasn't worth being with the menace 24/7—and when Sherlock was five Lestrade waltzed in, declaring that he would never quit.

And if he deserved credit for anything, it was that he _didn't_ quit. Never even threatened too. Sherlock almost respected him for it.

Almost.

"I don't know what good Mycroft thinks this will do," Sherlock said. "It's not like I actually utilized my royal resources very often. I didn't spend much money."

"No, you didn't," Lestrade agreed, "but you took advantage of the fact that nobody could tell you to shut your sodding mouth. Out in the real world, people are gonna hate you."

"Like I care if people like me," Sherlock muttered.

"Maybe not…" Lestrade replied, but he sounded like he thought Sherlock was going to care a lot more than he supposed.

* * *

When they arrived at San Francisco International Airport, they agreed that the moment they got off the plane, they were only to speak English, even to each other. Just as a way to blend in a little bit better, since Sherlock was already the type that got a good amount of attention just because of his personality. After they got through Customs, they found a man in a posh suit with a sign that said 'Holmes' to lead them to the car that would drive them the half hour it would take to get to Fanstord.

Sherlock had made several new deductions about Greg Lestrade by the time they got to the car.

"How many years were you in England?"

Lestrade glanced over, seeming to decide whether to answer. But maybe he thought Sherlock's non-patronising interest was refreshing because he said, "Four."

"The woman who I've been forbidden to speak about was from there. You brought her back to Denmark. But what took you there in the first place? You must've lived with a Dane that happened to live in England."

"Yeah, my mum. Lived with her in high school. Went back to Denmark when I finished. How'd you know?"

Sherlock looked at Lestrade with eyebrows up. Lestrade had never asked how Sherlock knew something before.

Then again, Sherlock had never asked Lestrade a sincere question about himself either.

"Your English is excellent, enough that you must have spent longer than a year in some English speaking country. I knew it was England because of your accent."

"And how'd you know… _she_ was from there?" he asked, looking at his lap.

"I deduced a long time ago that you married her straight out of high school. You were twenty when you started working for me and you clearly were not a newlywed. Either you dated her for less than a year before marrying her or you dated in high school. A sensible man like you wouldn't marry someone on a whim like that, so you were already together before you came back to Denmark. Child's play."

"But how'd you know I lived with a Dane when I was in England?"

"Because I never noticed you lived in England before now, which means you didn't pick up on many of their behaviours that would've clued me in. You had to have lived with a Dane or else you'd've subconsciously picked up more of their mannerisms."

Lestrade nodded and didn't express annoyance at the deductions.

"How many languages is the prince expected to know?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock might normally have been annoyed by the attempt at small talk, but there was nothing entertaining whatsoever to do in this bloody car other than look out the window, so he humoured Lestrade and answered. "Same as everyone else, really. I wasn't pressured into learning anything special. Chose German as a third language in grade school. But I get bored, so I also know Swedish, Faroese, Greenlandic, DSL, French—"

"Jesus."

"Mycroft knows double as many as me, I assure you. He was always better at learning languages."

"I heard that when you ran away to Serbia a few years back that His Royal Highness learnt Serbian in a couple of hours to come get you, but I thought it was bullocks," Lestrade said conversationally.

Ah yes, the Serbian Escapade. That was a good mystery. His parents were a bit cross with him for nearly starting a war, but it was worth it.

"A couple hours? He's slipping."

"Really?" asked Lestrade.

"I thought I was an idiot before Mycroft and I met other children," Sherlock confided.

"Then why is it you're such a pain and My—I mean His Royal Highness—"

"Please, call him Mycroft. No more Highnesses. It's not like I'll tell anyone."

"Fine, _Mycroft_ —why is Mycroft actually rather pleasant?"

Sherlock looked over. "Because Mycroft's priorities are different from mine. I am an intellectual, first and foremost. Mycroft is a politician."

"I think you're an arse, first and foremost, but we can agree to disagree."

Sherlock almost smiled. "I do enjoy it."

"Why? That's what I've never gotten about you. You can't be all bad."

"I am myself, whether those around me like that or not. It's tedious to pretend."

Lestrade was silent for a long moment. "I can almost respect that."

Much more almost respect between the two of them and they might become fond.

Then the car stopped.

"Here already?" asked Sherlock in surprise. The plane ride had felt like several weeks, but the half hour—longer, most likely, with traffic—had flown on by.

"Pleasant conversation shortens any journey, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock might've told Lestrade never to call him 'Mr' again were he not busy looking out the window at Fanstord University. His new home for who knew how long. It was certainly not ugly, he could say that much. If appreciated things like this, he might've been in awe.

But he didn't, so he just got his suitcase from the back and made his way up the path.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ever tried to imagine John with an American accent? Well, it's that time. To me, Sherlock with a Danish accent isn't so odd. But an American John is something I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around, even as I write it.**

 **Time to bust out that imagination, kids. I'm even making John's POV written in American grammar and spelling and shit. I'm getting down and dirty with the Murican up in here.**

* * *

Even though nobody here was to know Sherlock was royalty, clearly the school itself knew because many exceptions seemed to be afforded to him. Even though Lestrade wasn't a student, he was given a single room on Sherlock's floor—he was not in Sherlock's room because 1) Sherlock having a roommate was part of his punishment and 2) Lestrade begged to have a private space with which he could get away from Sherlock occasionally. Which Lestrade told Sherlock without reservation. He'd gotten used to honesty with Sherlock very quickly.

Sherlock's roommate had not arrived yet. In fact, most rooms seemed to be empty still. The calm before the storm, Sherlock considered it. Because taking university classes wouldn't be that hard, but being around this many people all the time was going to be absolute torture. Just the thought of being outnumbered by that many idiots made him feel restless.

He clearly needed to seduce some blokes very quickly for something to do or he was definitely going to start doing cocaine again.

Sherlock walked out of his room and was dismayed to see Lestrade waiting outside.

"I thought you got a separate room to get away from me."

"I did," Lestrade agreed. "But I also get paid a great deal for what I do and I got a fat bonus for agreeing to come to America with you. So least I can do is stay with you until I can't stand you any longer." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted—something Lestrade never dared to do in the past. "And if I can tell you're annoying me intentionally, I'll just be more determined to stay 'round and piss you off, so don't even try it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Lestrade was cleverer than he'd ever given the man credit for. When permitted to speak freely, he showed how well he really understood Sherlock.

"Fine, then come on."

"Where're we going?"

"Pub. Need to find a quick fuck." Lestrade gave a little wry smile and Sherlock asked in irritation, "What?"

"I think that'll be harder than you imagine."

"I can act pleasant if I choose to. You've seen it."

"Yeah. We'll see."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Will you at least agree to let me buy some drinks?"

Lestrade looked thoughtful. "You haven't been a complete prat today, so yeah. As long as I get one off your money."

"Deal."

* * *

It was John's first shift back after a summer with his mom. Any other student would probably be glad to have a break from school, but not John, not really. It's not that his mom wasn't nice, because she was, but being home in general was a pain. Everyone always talked about his dad. A man's man. Taught John how to shoot, taught John how he should act. Only in a town like his would people actually mock him for going to a prestigious school to be a doctor. They ridiculed him for commuting in high school to get to a school that had enough AP classes to get him into a school like Fanstord, they made fun of him when he got in, they gave him a hard time for working at a bar so he could attempt to afford said education. Apparently unless you're a farmer or a soldier, you're not worth anyone's time in John's hometown. Your father was a soldier. Your father did an honest day's work. Your father appreciated the simple things. Your father had loyalty to the people of this town. Your father knew his place and stayed in it.

To say the least, it got old. Especially since John wasn't the type to get told his place and stay in it—getting told he couldn't do something just made him want to do it more.

And he was so close. He was starting his last year of undergrad. Then he just had to apply to Varhard and actually get in and you know, that's totally not as hard as it sounds.

"Yo, John, wake up."

John shook his head to clear it. He'd been leaning against the bar with a rag in his hand, staring at a bottle of Gray Goose. It was his boss talking to him.

"Sorry, George. Daydreaming."

"Yeah, I can tell. We're opening for dinner. Look alive."

Bandervilt's was a sports bar with greasy food and lots of TVs. It was baseball season still, so most of the TVs had that playing. There was a Giants game tonight, so it was on the big screen. There was one soccer game too, over in a corner. John worked as a bartender or a waiter, depending on the night. He even occasionally stayed on bus boy and dish duty, if George really needed him to, but he always complained a lot when that happened.

Tonight he was on bar.

Honestly, the place wouldn't be too busy. School wasn't in yet, for one, but the place also stayed pretty dead until football started. This place was pretty much packed once football was on the TVs.

John didn't get the football hype though. A bunch of idiots tackling each other—woo? John wasn't a sports guy himself, but if he were he'd probably like soccer. He played it in high school, which had been alright, but even so he wasn't a fan of watching it.

A good number of the patronage was men most nights, because of the sports theme, but tonight a big group of mostly girls came in sporting Giants gear, taking a big table and ordering several pitchers of beer.

John knew a few of them—one better than the others. Her name was Sarah. She was Biology too so he'd had some classes with her. They'd also slept together once or twice.

"I didn't know you were a bartender," she said as he poured her a pitcher of Kellerweis. "Every time I come in, you're my waiter."

"I do a little of everything around here. I've been here longer than anyone else, so George lets me choose what I want to do most nights and makes the newer people pick up whatever I'm not feeling."

"That's a nice set up."

"Yeah, works for me."

"Well you should definitely text me sometime. I'd like to catch up." She gave him a clear up and down and he smiled.

"That sounds great."

She walked away and John wiped down a few glasses out of boredom and checked his phone before two girls from Sarah's table came over and ordered a couple of shots. After they took them together, they leaned against the bar and spoke in hushed tones—and John couldn't help but eavesdrop, since it's not like he had anything else to do.

"That guy—"

"Yeah, did you hear his accent? Where do you think he's from?"

"No idea, but he's pretty hot."

"In a weird way."

"Yeah, a super weird way. Like I had to look at him for a minute to realize it."

"Yeah, me too! Risa said she's gonna ask if he wants a drink."

"Didn't she and Ross just break up, like, last week?"

"Duh. Which is why she needs a cute foreigner to take her mind off it."

"Ugh. She is such a slut. In the nicest way possible. It's just true."

"Being a slut is her right. That's what feminism is all about."

"True. Maybe if we go back now we can see how it goes down."

The two girls left and John couldn't help but glance around in search of the man they'd just discussed. He didn't see any occupied tables other than the big table—which meant whoever the girls were talking about was at the one table that the occupied big table blocked from view if you were standing at the bar. People didn't often sit there because it didn't have a good view of any of the TVs.

Not that John needed to go objectifying his customers or anything. But it did make him a little curious. Gotta love foreigners.

But this wasn't the only conversation he heard about the foreigner. No less than three pairs of girls came up to the bar, pretending to get shots but actually just getting away to talk about this guy, whoever he was.

"He's so _European_."

"If you like that sort of thing. I don't know, I think it's weird looking."

"Are you kidding? You don't think that boy was fine?"

"No. Not really. His face was, like, gaunt. Does he even eat?"

"The cheekbones are just a Europe thing."

"Then I don't want European guys."

"Whatever."

And the next conversation John was sucked into by another classmate, one he knew less well. In fact, he couldn't even recall her name.

"John," she called, waving him over.

"If you're going to bring up this damn foreign dude—" John started.

"How'd you know?" she asked.

"Because nobody will shut up about him."

"Not surprising. He's a fucking asshole."

Wait. That wasn't what he expected. "Everyone was talking about how attractive he was, actually. Or European, or whatever."

"Then they weren't listening to a word that came out of his mouth. One of my friends asked if he wanted a drink and he straight up just said 'you're not my type' and turned away from her. It was hella harsh."

"Why're you telling me this?" John said.

"Because I heard him whisper to his friend that he's gonna come talk to you so I figured you should know he's a jerk."

"Wait, what?" John hissed, but they were walking away.

And there was an incoming foreigner to distract him anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

John got what all the girls were saying now. He was a bit bizarre looking, with prominent cheekbones and freaky-piercing eyes and these lips—John didn't even know where to start with those. But he was attractive. Really attractive—in a long coat, mysterious, maybe-secretly-a-serial-killer sort of way.

"Give me anything that's good," the dude said. Had John not already heard the girls talking about him having a strange accent, he probably wouldn't have caught anything other than English in the sound of his voice. But since he was looking for it, there was this tiny tinge of something else. John definitely didn't know how to place it.

"Like a beer or what?" asked John.

"Yeah, beer. I'm new to this country and I haven't tried any American brews, so I don't know what to pick."

"I at least need to know your price range," John said. "Some are more expensive than others."

"Price isn't an issue."

"Well then," John said, "we've got a few brews from Dogfish Head on tap right now. I'd try it now while we still have it, since we'll lose it in a few weeks. My favorite is called Midas Touch. It's sweet but dry, got a high ABV."

"Sounds good. I'll take it."

"Two?" John guessed.

The man smirked. "Why do you suppose I need two?" he asked.

"What, just gonna leave your friend out to dry?" asked John with a teasing smile.

"Well I'm just wondering how you know I'm with a friend, considering that you can't see my table from the angle you're standing at."

John was surprised the guy knew that. He didn't even turn to check—he just knew.

But the best way to do well in bartending is to keep things light and teasing. So he said, "I heard people talking about you and your friend. You're getting a lot of attention with that big coat of yours."

"Is that so?"

"The accent might also be part of it. Girls love foreigners." The guy rolled his eyes, so John added with his easy smile still intact, "What, too good for all the American girls?"

"Girls… not really my area," he said as he grabbed the glass John was holding out to him.

The guy didn't whisper to his friend that he was coming to get a drink, he told him he was coming to talk to John. And now girls aren't his area…

Ah. It's starting to come together.

Well, the guy was cute. And what he said to that girl wasn't nice, sure, but if he's gay and gets hit on by girls a lot, maybe she'd just struck a nerve accidentally.

Well either way, if this guy was hitting on him, John was at least going to test the waters because hot damn, he got more attractive the longer he looked.

"My name's John," he blurted out, sticking out a hand to shake.

The guy stared at the hand for a moment before accepting the handshake and saying, "Sherlock."

Sherlock. Weird name.

"What brings you here?" John asked.

"This bar, this town, or this country?"

"Start wherever you want."

"Well I'm at Fanstord to study Chemistry," Sherlock said. "I did it in America to get out of Denmark for a while. Gets dull, always seeing the same things."

"How long have you been in America?"

"Just got in today. Put my things down in my dormitory and came straight here."

"I guess after a flight from Denmark, a drink would be nice."

"Definitely. Especially with Lestrade."

"Your friend?" John assumed.

"Friend isn't the right term. He's more like my handler."

John's brow went up. "You need a handler?"

"Parents are worriers."

John's mom was a worrier too, but she didn't get him a handler. Sherlock had to have been rich. Then again, someone who could pay international Fanstord fees couldn't be short on money, especially if their reason for coming here was because they're bored of their own country.

"How've you liked your Chemistry classes?" Sherlock asked conversationally.

John was a little confused by the question. "How do you know I've had any?"

"Because every Biology program has a few Chemistry classes."

Okay, this guy definitely knew things he shouldn't have. And now that John was paying attention, he had this glint in his eyes like he knew he was confusing John.

Well John wouldn't give him the satisfaction of asking any more questions if he was trying to make him look stupid. Maybe he really was a douchebag after all. John would feel it out a little longer and if he was clearly a dick, he'd pretend to be busy with something else.

"I don't like Chemistry much," John said. "It's just a means to an end at this point."

"And what made you want to be a doctor?"

John smirked. "Because too many people told me I couldn't and proving people wrong is extremely satisfying."

For a guy that seemed to know way too much, he seemed a bit surprised by John's response. He at least paused for a moment and John took advantage.

"So if this Lestrade guy is your handler, how did you manage to keep him away?"

"He doesn't like watching me flirt. Makes him uncomfortable."

Well. The guy couldn't be more forward. A European thing? He'd never met a European, so he didn't know.

"You even needed a handler back in Denmark?" John asked when Sherlock implied that Lestrade has been his handler for a long time. "You must be quite the handful."

Sherlock smirked. "Several hands' full," he agreed, his eyes roving down John's body slowly.

This guy… was something else. He made that cheesy, pervy line somehow really sexy. Maybe it was the voice. Or the ridiculously keen eyes.

"Well," John said. "I get paid to be here, so I best get back to my job."

"When does your shift end?"

"I get off at two."

One of Sherlock's brows rose. "I can make that happen."

John's tongue ran across his bottom lip but he hid his interest with a light chuckle. "Sorry, Sherlock, but I don't put out on the first date. Try again another day."

"Sure you do. You've done it loads of times. You did with Sarah, and I suspect you've done it with many others, boys and girls alike. It's why I took an interest in you. So what makes me different?"

It took John a moment to comprehend that someone had actually just said that to him. I mean, the dude clearly knew a lot of things he had no business knowing, but what the hell was _that_? He'd pretty much just called John a slut in the most casual way possible.

His classmate that he couldn't remember the name of for the life of him was right. Sherlock was a jerk.

"Hm, I don't know," John said, "why don't you go home and think about that?"

The clear rejection seemed to bother Sherlock little. "I saw the way your pupils dilated when I made those innuendos. I know your mind is on sex and that you find me attractive."

"Well I certainly did before you started talking," John agreed.

"Oh, don't lie to yourself, you think I'm interesting."

John pursed his lips for a moment. "No wonder your handler doesn't like to watch you flirt. It's a train wreck. Why don't you just go back to your table, man? I'm not interested. I'm sure some moron'll fuck you as long as you quit doing that talking thing first."

And John didn't wait to see what Sherlock would say next. He found Carlos in the back doing dishes and asked if he would take over at the bar—Carlos was clearly thrilled to be relieved of dish duty.

John looked at the dishes, which were already managing to pile up, and sighed. If he ever saw that guy again, he had to remember to sock him in the jaw.


	6. Chapter 6

**I make reference to my favourite bar in this chapter because it deserves mention for being perfect. Every other location—such as Stanford, Harvard, and Vanderbilt's—I changed the name of because I don't actually portray these locations accurately (never been to Stanford or Harvard; went to a bar called Vanderbilt's a couple times on a trip but don't remember it well enough to describe it). But U-Bar, being my frequent haunt, I can describe fully and accurately, even if it is not in Fanstord, California.**

 **I don't think U-Bar would sue me for using them in a story, but you just never know, so I don't own University Bar, blah blah yadda lawsuit babble.**

* * *

Sherlock found that it was pretty easy to feed his appetites here, much to Lestrade's dismay. Sure, Sherlock couldn't shag every person he spoke to like he could back in Denmark, but he scored a good forty percent of the people he attempted to speak to—sixty percent of the people that let him get more than a few words in before walking away. Every encounter went one of three ways: 1) Sherlock would try to talk to them and they'd either express their heterosexuality or lack of interest immediately before walking away, 2) Sherlock's personality would put them off pretty quickly and they would also walk away, or 3) They succumbed to his foreign charms and laid him. Lestrade originally was going to refuse to let Sherlock use his money on hotels, but then Sherlock stated he would just fuck these boys in his dorm if he didn't and Lestrade pitied Sherlock's neighbors enough that he wouldn't let that happen.

Only one person didn't react in one of the aforementioned three ways, and that was John the bartender at Bandervilt's, his very first attempt at flirtation on American soil. He was the only one that was clearly taken in by Sherlock's charm but still refused him. In fact, Sherlock's conversation didn't go to plan with John. John had kept up with Sherlock very well, had refused to be made the idiot, and even had seemed almost interesting at more than one point. His quiet almost-intelligence and humble confidence were somewhat attractive. Plus, Sherlock's new favourite sentence: _Because too many people told me I couldn't and proving people wrong is extremely satisfying._ There was nothing more satisfying than proving people wrong in Sherlock's opinion and John understanding that was a definite turn on.

So even though Sherlock couldn't quite explain why, he'd slept with a dozen other men already and still was thinking about John. Which was silly, since he'd mucked up pretty badly on the first try, enough that he might not be able to make up for it. Plus, the likelihood of seeing him again was slim. He couldn't go back to Bandervilt's without John running away to the back again. They were in the same college at Fanstord since they were both science, but there was no way they'd be in any classes together because John was clearly not a first year and Sherlock was.

And there was no reason for Sherlock to care anyway because the only purpose for talking to anyone here was to fuck them and John was clearly going to take a lot of work for that to happen. So Sherlock might as well forget the bloke.

Speaking of people he'd rather forget, there was his roommate. His name was Howard. He played loads of videogames and had posters of trains all over his walls. He had this hat that he chewed on—obsessively only on one bobble, not the other—and his breath was unpleasant. The only good thing about him was that he _supposedly_ had a girlfriend, whom he visited often. He slept at her place as often as he slept in their dorm room and Sherlock was infinitely grateful because the man never shut up, no matter how clear Sherlock made it that he was entirely uninterested in everything he had to say. Though Sherlock wasn't entirely convinced that he actually stayed with his mother the nights he was away because all his deductions about the man made it seem impossible for him to have a significant other. But then again, there had to be some girl out there who was as lonely and pathetic as him.

But in all honesty, things at Fanstord weren't so bad. Sherlock was learning how to stay on Lestrade's good side, which meant he could continue spending money as long as he didn't ask for anything extravagant. It all started with trying not to treat him like an idiot—which was difficult but possible. But it went beyond that. He started to explore Lestrade's interests in order to get past just tolerance—and it turned out that Lestrade's interests kind of lined up with Sherlock's own. Lestrade, since he used to work for the DPF, was just as interested in a good mystery as Sherlock was. Apparently Lestrade hadn't completely hated following Sherlock around if he was looking at a crime scene because 1) he would spend time with his old police friends and 2) he got to see just a little bit of the action that he was missing since he took the job watching Sherlock. He hadn't been a huge fan of interfering with police business, but when Sherlock got Lestrade drunk enough to admit it he said that if he had ended up Detective Inspector like he had always planned, he'd have let Sherlock help on cases so he didn't have to interfere. He'd always secretly admired how quickly he could solve even the most difficult cases and thought it was a little dense of the police not to listen to Sherlock's conclusions.

It almost made Sherlock regret that he'd taken this job instead. He might never have turned to sex as a pastime if he'd had mysteries full time.

But anyway, things were okay. Definitely tolerable. He and Lestrade would—more discreetly than in Denmark—look at police cases and they'd go to pubs so Sherlock could get his fix and Sherlock even learned a little in his classes, even if most of it was obvious and retaking general education was close to torture. And he hadn't gotten any irritable texts from Mycroft, so Lestrade's frequent reports must've been coming back fairly positive.

So much for his father thinking he would change from this. Everything was the same as before.

For the first month at least.

But one night changed all that.

* * *

John hadn't gone out with his friends since the semester started. He'd said that he was far too busy, but finally Molly said enough was enough. She insisted John'd go crazy if he didn't have fun sometimes and John was tired of hearing about it, so he agreed to go out on a Friday night.

Even though he worked at Bandervilt's, it was definitely not his favorite bar in town. That would be University Bar, called U-Bar for short. It was dark and dingy with three pool tables, a four-player Pacman machine, a foosball table, and air hockey. It also had a jukebox so the patrons could pick the music. Sometimes it would play random rap or pop or rock, but most often it played older music. If you went to U-Bar and _Bohemian Rhapsody_ didn't turn on at least once, it was a strange night. And if everyone in the damn building didn't sing the song all the way through—well that would never happen so that sentence just has to go unfinished.

John was sitting at one of their small, round tables with four other people. John had suggested sharing a pitcher of Blue Moon with a shit-ton of orange slices, but Mike was insisting that they "go hard" considering that John usually refused to come out. So they were all a bit toasty, having taken a couple shots before each choosing one of their cheap house cocktails and taking a sit. John's alcohol tolerance was definitely not up to par with his friends' due to his antisocial behavior for the last month, so he might've been a little toastier than they were. Especially since he was mumble-singing to _Piano Man_ , and singing was an exclusively drunk activity for John Watson.

As was dancing, which was another common activity here since U-Bar was actually underneath a dance club called The Beach. Some nights his friends would venture up there if they had drunk enough to gyrate to bass-heavy remixes of the Top 100 without getting embarrassed.

Currently Sally was talking about her classes. She was older than John, but only a sophomore. In fact, John was twenty seven and he was the youngest of the five of them other than Molly, who was twenty four. They were the group that couldn't bring themselves to start college right out of high school, so they all took some time off to either take a break or make some money before starting at Fanstord. Even though they were all different years, they'd all had at least one class together and became a unit. John wasn't as close to Sally and Phil as he was to Molly and Mike, but they were fine.

John had been mostly ignoring the conversation, just nursing his drink and savoring his buzz, until he heard a name that he never thought he would hear again.

Sherlock.


	7. Chapter 7

Specifically John heard the name when Sally stopped what she was saying to murmur, "Oh god, it's Sherlock."

John had to think for a second to even know where he'd heard it, but then he remembered pale eyes, an alluring accent, and a horrible attempt at a pick up.

He glanced around and saw the guy, in that same coat as last time. He was sitting in the corner at the bar, chatting quietly with the guy next to him, who had a good looking face topped with seemingly premature gray hair.

"How do you know him?" asked John.

"He's in a Gen Ed class with me and Phil. He's a nightmare. How do _you_ know him?"

"Came into work one night. Made an ass of himself."

She smirked. "Not surprised. Freak." John had never heard Sally be so venomous before and was a bit surprised by it. "What'd he do anyway, make a customer cry?"

John's eyebrow went up. "Uh, no. But he did hit on someone when they weren't interested."

She coughed out something like a laugh. "That guy? Sherlock Holmes? Hit on someone? No fucking way. I'm not sure he's capable of human emotion."

"Dunno, I don't think he's so bad," Mike inserted. "He's in one of my Chem classes and you have to respect how smart he is, even if he's a little…"

"Weird? Annoying? Insensitive?" Phil suggested.

"Eccentric," Mike decided. "Some people are just rough around the edges at first. I mean, look at John." He clapped a hand on John's shoulder. "If you get to know him, he's nice as anything, but at first he's a little… intimidating."

John didn't know whether to be insulted at first until he decided it was probably true. He wasn't cuddly or trusting, not unless he decided you deserved it. Which sometimes took a while.

"True enough," Molly agreed. "I was."

"Actually," Mike continued, "on Tuesdays I have the same classroom two classes in a row—same professor too. I have Sherlock in the first class and John in the second. They always sit in the same seat and are equally as passive aggressive towards the professor. John just whispers about it is the only difference. Dunno, they might even get along."

"I doubt that," John put in as he stood up, "but I need another drink. I'll pay for this round. Tell me what you want."

Craig, their favorite bartender, was there tonight. John went to that end of the bar, even if the other end had more space, because the blonde bartender that was manning the right side always made bad drinks. Craig liked them because they tipped a lot and they liked him because he made drinks better than anyone and hey if he also had a cute, long-hair-grungy-hipster look going that John liked, so what?

While John waited for Craig to free up he couldn't help but glance over at Sherlock often. Because of self-preservation and a desire not to be hit on again, of course.

And then he realized he was safe because Sherlock looked up to him, met eyes for a second, and then looked back to his handler without a single change in expression. He didn't recognize John. Of course he didn't. Why would he?

John relaxed and hung out with his friends. They even had enough to drink that they spent the last hour before closing time dancing at The Beach—though a half hour before close, Phil and Sally made excuses about both needing to go home since they were inexplicably hiding that they were sleeping together. By the time John, Molly, and Mike left The Beach along with the rest of the crowd at a quarter to two, they had made a chain with their arms wrapped around each others' shoulders, sweating and giggling as they made their way outside.

At which point they were met almost immediately by a mob of people, all obviously distraught as they looked at something in the street—a body.

People were calling the police, were covering their mouths in horror, were walking away and hoping to pretend they never saw it.

But John looked at the scene and couldn't help but notice… the blood spread around the body was awfully small, but was growing quickly… which implied that it only just happened. Which meant—

"Lestrade, the killer must still be in the area."

John didn't mean to overhear Sherlock, but he had an easily distinguishable voice and John had already been thinking the same thing.

"Sherlock, there's no way to know which way he went," said Lestrade. John had never heard his handler's voice before, but his accent didn't have the Scandinavian tinge that Sherlock's did. He just sounded English.

Sherlock stood for a moment with his eyes closed, twitching behind his lids as if he were reading something in his mind's eye. Then they flashed open. "Yes there is."

And he ran down the street.

"Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?" Lestrade yelled exasperatedly.

And it was a crazy thing to do and John knew it, but then he ran after Sherlock.

"John?" Molly called.

"Where the hell are you going?" Mike hollered.

But none of the three followed. John had to run at top speed in order to keep up with Sherlock, but kept a little behind him. If Sherlock could hear him pounding away behind him, he didn't even bother to look back to find out who was in pursuit.

And John really didn't know how Sherlock knew what random side street the killer had turned down, but finally he caught up.

But it turned out he had friends. There were three of them and the guy had clearly known he was being followed. His knife still had blood on it as he approached Sherlock, the other two flanking him.

"John, get out of here," Sherlock said calmly without even turning. So Sherlock had not only known he was being followed, but he knew it was John as well. Clearly Sherlock hadn't forgotten John after all.

"Aw, protecting your boyfriend? How sweet."

Three people. All clearly not as tough as they wanted to look—in fact, he was surprised the front man could bring himself to kill someone. Maybe it was an accident.

And John didn't think about it. He sprang into action.

Guy with the knife was priority, but his stance sucked—it took no effort at all to barrel him off his feet and John wasn't even in danger of getting hurt as he knocked the knife from his hand and kicked it out of reach—best not touch it if it was a murder weapon. As he was trying to get up again, he dealt with the second guy, coming forward with a clean knife of his own. This one got a swipe in but John dodged him easily and then savored the sound of bone meeting bone when his knuckles connected with his cheek. John was careful—he didn't want to kill the guy—but he would certainly need some medical attention after that one.

And then he prepared to stand off with the third guy, but Sherlock was sitting on him, twirling his knife in his leather-clad hands. John didn't know how Sherlock dealt with him, but found himself impressed.

So he looked back to the first guy, who was trying to get to his knife. John ran over and rested his foot over the guy's arm, and he froze.

"Unless you want a broken wrist, quit moving."

"Hey man, take it easy," the guy pleaded. "He started it, alright?"

"Well you ended it, didn't you?"

"John, watch out—"

Sherlock's warning was not enough to keep John from getting a nice slice, but a cut in the arm was much better than the stab in the back he would've gotten otherwise.

Sherlock had jumped up and tackled the guy who just cut at John, disarming him quickly. The third guy still wasn't moving, even with Sherlock no longer sitting on him. And so John and Sherlock both sat on one of the other two once the knives were out of the way again.

Sherlock immediately untucked his shirt—an expensive looking shirt at that—and tore off a long piece, tying up John's arm wound in barely a couple seconds, so quickly and efficiently that he must've done it before.

"What'd you do to that guy?" John asked, nodding to the unconscious third man.

"Sleeper hold."

John's eyebrow went up. "And where'd you learn to do that?"

"I know how to do a lot of things."

John glanced at his neatly wrapped up arm wound. "I've noticed. Like how you knew where this tit went," he added, flicking the guy he was sitting on in the side of the head. The guy complained quietly but seemed to realize he'd lost. "You gonna tell me how you figured that one out?"

"Not important now. That one is going to wake up any second and we need to restrain him, along with these two. And then we need to leave before the police arrive.

"You called them already?"

Sherlock nodded. "But trust me, we don't want to be here when they arrive."

John agreed. "Okay, so let's restrain them."


	8. Chapter 8

"So why couldn't we stay until the cops showed?" asked John as they stood in an alley ten blocks from the scene of their own crime. John looked ridiculous in Sherlock's coat—which was so long that the bottom was brushing the floor as they stood there—in order to hide his bloody arm in case anyone walked past. John'd felt bad that he was going to ruin the coat, since it looked pricey, but Sherlock assured him that he had lots of coats.

"Explaining a lack of involvement in a crime gets messy. Plus, you and I subdued three larger men with very little injury to ourselves and that alone is suspicious."

John nodded. "You think that guy was dead?"

"Not sure," Sherlock said absently, as if the fate of the victim they'd just avenged hadn't crossed his mind until John mentioned it. He got out his phone, which was vibrating like crazy. John was sure it was either calls or texts from Lestrade. "He wasn't when we got outside, but if the paramedics didn't act quickly enough, his wound was certainly fatal."

John looked at Sherlock with narrowed eyes. "If you didn't care about the dude that got stabbed, then why bother to go after a guy that could hurt you? What was in it for you?"

"Who said my reasoning was selfish?" he asked as he still looked at his phone, quickly typing out a message. John just looked at him probingly, and Sherlock continued without glancing up, "What I care about is a result. Running up to a man that's been stabbed when I can't help him is a waste of my time and the victim's. But I knew where the perpetrator went and I knew that was something I could do something about. So I did."

"And you don't care at all if that guy lived or died?"

"Do you?" Sherlock countered, finally meeting John's gaze. "I mean, you followed me. You didn't stay to see what happened to him. You didn't go back to see if there was someone you could ask. You haven't even texted one of your friends to ask. You may think you care, but actions speak louder than words. You cared about the result, same as me. Knew stopping the man from doing that to more people was ultimately more important than crying over someone you couldn't help."

John didn't want to think about whether or not Sherlock was right and John was secretly just as calculating as Sherlock was, so instead he latched on to the mention of his friends. At being reminded of them, he took out his cell to see more than a few worried messages from Mike and Molly. He told them he was fine, told Mike that he'd be home soon (they were roommates) before looking back up to Sherlock.

Then he changed the subject for good measure.

"Alright. I don't get you. First time we meet you're trying desperately to get in my pants and now you're acting like that never happened."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be too flattered. You were the first male I had spoken to in America and I was in a rotten mood. I needed a lay. You were my first opportunity. Jet lag dampened my social skills a tad."

"A bit," John agreed. "Though from what I've heard about you, I'm not sure your social skills are ever very good."

Sherlock smirked. "Yeah, not a huge fan of most people, personally."

"But you seem to understand them pretty well. You seem to know a lot of things without asking. How do you do that?"

"I observe."

"You observed that I was a Biology major and that I wanted to be a doctor?"

"I did."

"How?"

Sherlock looked a bit like he was hoping John would ask that. "Of all the deductions I made about you that I never mentioned, that was the least complicated leap. Of the group of girls that was sitting at that table, you knew two of them. They knew each other through Biology, as they mentioned classes at the table. Then there's your lanyard. Nobody has a lanyard advertising a hospital unless they worked there. It's old, so you worked there a while and probably really enjoyed it, because without a sentimental attachment you'd have replaced it by now. Either of those facts separately wouldn't have made me certain you studied Biology but both of them together made it very likely. As for wanting to be a doctor, that was just balance of probability. Most people that study Biology have some grandiose fantasy of becoming a doctor. And again, you worked at a hospital, so that was more likely than you going into research or something. See? Pretty simple." Before John could say a word, Sherlock added, "If you really want to be impressed, I could tell you how I knew you were interested in men before I spoke to you, or how I know your father's dead. I could even tell you about your lesbian sister."

John stared up at Sherlock for a long moment before he said, "That… was amazing."

Sherlock didn't look like he was expecting that response. "Was it?"

"Don't act like you don't already know that," John said with an eye roll.

"It's just not what people normally say."

"What do people normally—no, you know what, now that I think about it, I know what they say. And I'm sure you deserve every word of it."

Sherlock looked down at John and John couldn't quite decipher what his expression meant. But then Sherlock, with a small smile, asked, "Dinner?"

And John wasn't sure why he didn't even have to think about it before he said, "Starving." They walked out of the alley and started casually strolling down the sidewalk. "There's a burger place that's open on—"

"Seventh, I know."

John sighed even though he was more amused than annoyed. "What _don't_ you know?"

"Next time I get confused, I'll be sure to let you know, but I wouldn't advise you hold your breath."

John smiled. Well, maybe he'd misjudged Sherlock after all.

But no. Sherlock wasn't so different than John had originally thought.

So maybe he'd misjudged himself.


	9. Chapter 9

When the door slammed in John's face, he wondered why exactly he was friends with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock could have no visitors to his dorm right now because he was meditating on an especially juicy case and someone might try to speak to him, or breathe too loud.

Apparently.

So John was out in the hallway with Sherlock's roommate Howard, who had also been kicked out.

"Sherlock being a git again?"

John turned around to see Greg standing there.

"Always." John shook his head. "It's ridiculous. I inflict his company on myself. I have been for months now. I'm clearly going insane." Then John looked over to Howard, feeling a sudden surge of pity for him.

Sherlock had eventually confided that his parents had forced him to move to America because they thought he needed an attitude adjustment (no kidding) and they somehow thought living a less-wealthy life with a roommate would make that happen. John privately thought that it'd been pretty selfish to inflict Sherlock upon another person. John had gotten to know Sherlock in the past months and thought he might be able to handle living with him, but at least he got to choose for himself. Howard, the poor guy, had no choice in the matter. John was a special kind of crazy for not only being able to deal with Sherlock… but for actually kind of liking the guy.

And that was when John had the idea.

* * *

Howard saw the genius in John's plan the moment he suggested it. He was all for it. Some arrangements had to be made very discreetly, so as Sherlock wouldn't notice, but it was all worth it.

It took some doing, and some help from Greg, to get Sherlock out of the way long enough to make the trade. Greg said he wanted to see San Francisco and that he couldn't go unless Sherlock came along. Sherlock pretended to be against the idea, but John could tell that Sherlock was actually rather fond of Greg and would do it without any incentive. But Greg did offer incentive: One day's unlimited access to his money. Sherlock would keep the card on him and no questions would be asked about his purchases.

Sherlock couldn't refuse that.

Sherlock had invited John along, but he said he was busy. Sherlock was slightly suspicious, that was obvious, but he didn't know what John was up to and that was all that mattered.

Mike, Molly, Sally, and Phil helped John and Howard make the move and they finished faster than they ever could have guessed.

John couldn't wait to see Sherlock's face.

* * *

Sherlock was on edge the whole day.

He knew Lestrade didn't just want to go on this trip in order to see the City. He knew John wanted to get Sherlock out of town for a bit, but Sherlock couldn't imagine why.

Sherlock hated not knowing.

A million possibilities flitted through his head, each of them sillier than the next. And that was just in the first five minutes of the drive.

He texted John all day and he never took more than ten minutes to reply, which was ordinary for him, but he never said what he was doing until later in the evening when he said he was out with friends.

Sherlock decided that after dropping off the intriguing items he had gotten from a homeless man, he would stop by all of John's normal haunts until he found him and demand to know what John had been doing all day.

But on his way to his dorm room, things were strange. Lestrade all of a sudden seemed to be tensed with anticipation. There were no less than three new marks on the walls, as if someone had been moving large things through the hall a little clumsily.

The sound of video games was not filtering through his door.

He felt like he was on the edge of a deduction that he couldn't quite put together and it was driving him mad. What was going on?

Sherlock opened his door slowly…

To find the opposite side of his room completely redecorated. No more were the train posters, replaced by pictures with friends, a periodic table, and a bookshelf.

And on the bed was John Watson, all casualness and ease. Reading a book. So perfectly nonchalant that Sherlock for the first time realised that John was a decent actor.

John glanced up and his first break of character was in the way his skin pulled around his face, wanting so badly to smile. "Oh, Sherlock, hello. How was Frisco?"

Sherlock's hesitation was short. "Ah. Fine?" He stood there blinking at John, who looked back to his book. He was putting in more and more effort not to break character. The silence lingered before Sherlock said, "If you killed Howard, I would completely sympathise, but please tell me you hid the body somewhere discreet."

John looked up again. "Howard?" he asked. Then he made a fairly theatrical look of recognition. "Oh, _Howard_! You mean Mike's roommate. No, he's alive, last I checked."

Sherlock had figured the truth the moment he looked at the room, but this confirmed it. John traded rooms with Howard. But… "Why?" he finally asked.

John finally put the book down, sitting up. "Because you're a rotten roommate, man. Like horrible. And I felt bad for the guy, so I said we could trade. The rent at my place isn't much different from the dorm prices and he didn't mind the mild short-changing, considering he was gaining a kitchen and private bathroom and losing a high functioning sociopath."

It always seemed to Sherlock that Howard didn't notice any of the things Sherlock did. He always acted so oblivious and content. Apparently he was a good actor too.

But that wasn't the important part here.

"So you were just a Good Samaritan and took the burden of my company upon yourself?" asked Sherlock dryly.

"Something like that."

"What did you gain from that?"

"Helping out a guy that deserved a damn break," John replied.

"Past the fact that you know I'm not a good roommate, there's also the fact that I know you hated dorm life. Shared toilets, meal plans… you despised all that. You value your privacy. Even for you this is uncharacteristically self-sacrificing."

"You puzzle it out then," John responded, picking up his book once more.

Sherlock stood there in the doorway and stared at John. And stared some more.

There was only one explanation. There was a part of John that had wanted this. That not only didn't mind having Sherlock as a roommate, but looked forward to it.

Was John really so fond?

And why did that fact make Sherlock feel so warm?

Oh, dear.


	10. Chapter 10

When John invited Sherlock home for Thanksgiving, he didn't expect Sherlock to be surprised. I mean, wasn't it obvious? They had to leave the dorms for the week. Sherlock had nowhere to go. He and John were pretty much inseparable at this point. Of course Sherlock would come home with him.

But Sherlock had stared at John for a long, long moment. In fact, he'd dropped an eyeball into a cup of tea and then proceeded to drink from said cup.

"Surprisingly okay," he'd called the brew.

Sherlock then started to ask what the exact point of Thanksgiving was, since celebrating the hostile takeover of someone else's land hardly seemed cause for celebration. John then explained that the holiday actually had nothing to do with that—that it was a time to slow down, get together with the people you loved, and appreciate all the good things in your life.

"It's got all the familial love of Christmas without the materialism," John summed up.

"Unless you count gluttony as a form of materialism," Sherlock noted.

John rolled his eyes. "You don't _have_ to stuff your face."

"But that's customary, isn't it?"

"Well. Yes, but don't we always ruin the point of holidays? That's just what people do."

John really couldn't tell what Sherlock thought of going home with him. After he got over the original shock, he was as indifferent about the trip to John's hometown as he was every other thing that didn't involve a corpse.

In fact, the only thing he'd asked John about the place was what the crime rate was like. At which point Sherlock had to be sorely disappointed.

* * *

Greg wasn't sure he'd ever seen Sherlock genuinely sleep before. He was openly staring at Sherlock, who was in the passenger seat seemingly passed out. He didn't look comfortable though—his head didn't loll to the side and his mouth didn't hang open. He sat up straight and breathed quietly, but wasn't restless enough to be awake—hadn't complained of boredom for almost an hour. Had to be sleeping.

"What're you looking at, Greg?" asked John.

John was driving, but he was pretty bad about actually paying attention to the road. He noticed way too much about what was going on around him for Greg's taste.

But Greg didn't mention it at this moment. "Just Sherlock. Never seen him asleep before."

John's eyes met Greg's in the rearview. "Seriously? Never? Not in almost twenty years?"

"He just doesn't like to sleep," Greg muttered. "God if I know why. Let me know if you ever figure it out."

"You know him better than I do," John said. "I've known him four months."

"I've known him his whole life and no I don't."

This time John did look out the windshield, but it seemed to be more to ponder intensely than it was to drive.

"How is it that Sherlock is so stupid about some things?"

Greg looked back at him, since he'd been staring at Sherlock. "He has a knack for it. What thing are you referring to?"

"He still thinks you hate him when it's so clear that you care about him."

The corner of Greg's mouth quirked up. "I've told him myself that I like him. He just refuses to remember it."

"I'd understand if you did hate him. Sherlock's told me a thing or two about how he's treated you. I wouldn't blame you if you pretended you still hated him out of pride."

Greg snorted. "Pride isn't an issue of mine. I know when someone knows better than me, and usually Sherlock does. I'm not afraid to tell people what I really think, even if it's embarrassing."

"That's a good quality."

"Well. Sometimes." There was a long pause. "In fact, I really should thank Sherlock. If he hadn't have told me about my wife, I'd probably still be with her. I might still be trying to maintain long dead friendships, I might've kept trying to reconcile with my dad or kept calling my brother on holidays. What Sherlock said was cruel, but it was a wakeup call that I needed. And I don't regret the things that have happened that brought me here."

"It takes a strong man not to hold a grudge for something like that."

"Don't act like you wouldn't do the same," Greg said.

John smiled, glancing over at Sherlock. "Well. I'm better at handling this one than most, it seems."

Greg somehow kept from rolling his eyes. John was sitting there talking about how stupid Sherlock was about some things when he was the king of denial. Anyone could see—

Greg's mobile buzzed and he knew it was Mycroft. They had always corresponded a lot so he knew Sherlock was behaving, but they'd been talking more lately. Greg knew Mycroft didn't prefer to text, but when it came to hiding their communications from his nosey brother, he made an exception. They only dared talk on the phone during the infrequent times Greg was alone in his room and knew Sherlock was sleeping.

 _Off to celebrate Thanksgiving? – Mycroft Holmes_

 _Seems so._

 _John's hometown, I presume. – Mycroft Holmes_

Mycroft always talked about John like he knew him.

Then again, Greg shuddered to know the amount Mycroft _had_ dug up about John. And the poor bastard didn't even know Mycroft existed.

Sometimes Greg wondered whether it was actually best to hide the truth from John. He obviously would never tell anyone their secret. But it was Sherlock's idea to keep hiding it from him, and since it was his royal secret, it was his decision. Greg had asked why on several occasions, but he refused to answer.

"You know he cares about you too, right?" John asked Greg. "He'd never admit it, but he does."

Greg chuckled. "Before we came here, I wasn't sure Sherlock was capable of caring about anything. So the fact that I almost believe you says a lot."

"Sherlock's always cared."

"No he hasn't," Greg assured John. "He wasn't secretly a softy that you pulled out of his shell. His insides weren't soft until you melted them." Greg almost mentioned the fact that Sherlock used to use men as sexual objects but that he hadn't even mentioned going to pick up a quick fuck since he and John became friends. But he thought that would be too obvious—if John wanted to be in denial, Greg would let him.

John looked thoughtful for a moment before he started to don a cheeky grin. "Wow, Greg, I never knew you were a poet."

Greg leaned back in his seat. "Oh, shut it, John. Why don't you look at the road for once?"

Greg and Mycroft continued to exchange small talk. Greg asked about the diet, Mycroft asked if Greg had finished that book he suggested. They even were a little flirty occasionally and sometimes Greg thought about how ridiculous it was—he was flirting with the Crown Prince of Denmark. He, just an ordinary bloke, was casually hitting on a future King. It was ludicrous and still didn't feel strange at all.

But then Mycroft changed the subject completely.

 _Gregory, I feel I should confess something to you, so you aren't caught completely by surprise. But you mustn't tell Sherlock. – Mycroft Holmes_

 _Okay…_

Greg looked up at John while he waited for the response. John was looking at Sherlock again and thought he was being sly.

And then his phone buzzed and he read the text.

And he looked back up at John. Sherlock, at that exact moment, opened his eyes and caught John staring. John turned beet red and turned to the road (finally) and Sherlock just looked at him with a warm smile. And kept looking at him. And kept smiling.

And Greg glanced back down at the text one more time and realised… this was not good.


	11. Chapter 11

John somehow expected Sherlock to react to the very rural nature of his hometown—the dirt roads, the old buildings, the ten seconds it took to drive through 'downtown'. John hadn't mentioned the farming of his youth much, but he should've figured Sherlock would already know.

Being back in this place wasn't the same with Sherlock here. John couldn't get out of talking to his neighbors because they would always ambush him the moment he parked, but now that it wasn't just him it was different. Gone was the talk about his valiant father. In fact, people didn't seem to think it made sense to talk about John at all when there was an intriguing foreigner to talk to. For people who were so obsessed with loyalty to the home, they were all pretty fascinated with Denmark suddenly.

John didn't mind at all. He'd spent long enough talking about himself and having all of them laugh in his face, honestly believing that he could never achieve his dreams.

Plus, it was kind of funny. To John, Sherlock's annoyance was obvious, but to anyone else he was eating up all the attention. Not to mention Sherlock was straight up lying—John had heard a thing or two about Sherlock's parents and home life, even though it wasn't much, but what he was telling them didn't match up at all. Suddenly he had a brother—though John wasn't sure what adding a brother to the story did for John's neighbors.

Then John's mom came outside. "You all always steal my boy before I even get to say hi," she scolded them, hugging him tight. "And these must be your friends," she added upon looking at Greg and Sherlock.

"I'm Sherlock. It's a pleasure to meet you," Sherlock said, holding out a hand. John thought it funny how good Sherlock's manners could be when he was actually trying to be nice. They were spotless, really. His parents must've been very into being polite—but Sherlock being Sherlock only used said manners when it benefited him.

Sherlock and Greg got a tour of the house and Sherlock was on very good behavior as he pretended to care and then he was shown the guest room.

"One of you will take this room and the other will take John's."

"Then where's John sleeping?" asked Greg.

"The couch," she replied.

"Oh no, I couldn't allow that," said Greg. "I'll take the couch. It's no problem at all."

"Greg—" John started.

"Really, John. Give Sherlock the guest room, but keep yours."

John knew there was no point in arguing. "Alright, if you're sure."

"Definitely. I sleep like a rock anyway. I won't know the difference."

"How about I make some coffee for you all?" Mom suggested.

"That'd be lovely, thank you," Greg said.

"We'll be right there, Ma," John said as they began to walk away and John took Sherlock's bag from him and set it in the guest room.

"I can carry my own bag," Sherlock said with an eyeroll.

"With your pampered, rich-boy hands, I doubt it," he said, making fun of the show he'd made of his wealth to the neighbors. "That brother of yours sounded like a dick," John said conversationally.

"Oh, he is, I assure you."

John blinked. He'd actually been joking because he was under the impression the brother was some inexplicable invention of Sherlock's that he thought would make the story better. "Uh. Wait. You actually have a brother?"

Sherlock seemed to freeze for half a second. "Yes I have a brother," he said after the slightest hesitation.

John looked at Sherlock more closely. How did _that_ never come up?

"Mycroft and I don't get on. I don't normally talk about him."

But now Sherlock was defending himself, which only made John feel weirder about it. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about this didn't sit right with him. Like… he didn't know Sherlock at all.

After a moment, however, he decided he was just grumpy from a long drive. Of course he knew Sherlock. The little details of his family didn't really matter, did they? Plus, two friends don't need to know everything about each other. John wouldn't care if Mike never mentioned a brother. So why was it different with Sherlock?

But John didn't like to think about it too much because then he felt like he knew the answer.

"Well I definitely get not having a good relationship with a sibling," John finally said.

"Yes, is Harry here, or is she back in rehab?"

John had never mentioned Harry's drinking problem, of course. Sherlock just knew.

"She's not here yet, but she'll come. Mom would kill her if she skipped Thanksgiving."

* * *

Turned out Mom was going to have to kill Harry after all, because she wasn't coming home for Thanksgiving. Apparently she was going to see her girlfriend's family instead. John felt bad the moment he mentioned Harry over coffee because she got really sad. John wondered if they had gotten into another of their big fights. They were really good at those.

But either way, it was probably good John had company. Mom loved company and it would likely distract her from not having Harry around.

John noticed that Sherlock was looking out the window at the barn, as if wondering if it was for show.

"Want to see the animals?" asked John.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed.

"I'll stay," said Greg, with something weird in his expression. Like he thought something was funny.

Sherlock raised brow. "You mean I get to go alone?" he asked, trying to take some of the sarcasm from his voice for Mrs. Watson's benefit.

"Go ahead. You kids have fun."

* * *

John may not have been a huge fan of the rustic life, but he did like the animals. They didn't have much right now. They had a milking cow, some pigs, a couple horses.

Sherlock looked more fascinated than John expected as he stood in front of Jim the black and white quarter horse. He rubbed the side of Jim's face and the corner of his mouth turned up.

"Can you ride?" John asked him.

"Oh yes. The well-bred always know their way 'round a horse."

John rolled his eyes. "Well so do hicks like me, so that doesn't mean much."

Sherlock ignored the comment, looking over with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Let's ride together."

John grinned. "I guess we can see who got better riding lessons, huh?"

John went over to Charles, their Appaloosa, and quickly swung himself on.

"Bareback, huh?" asked Sherlock. "Then you'll win because I've never ridden bareback."

"What, poor little rich boy can't get his ass a little dirty?" John teased.

Sherlock glared and hauled himself onto Jim's back. "I didn't say I couldn't do it. Just that I haven't done it previously."

And he trotted from the stables before John had even thought about following.

* * *

 **There's something nice about a story where your villains get used for horse names. It's so peaceful here in fluff-fic land.**


	12. Chapter 12

Watching John ride was different than all the riding Sherlock had done in his life. Riding horseback was dignified, a sign of wealth. It was either done in a leisurely manner or at a competitive level.

But not when John did it. His horse trusted him completely and let him run him hard. Sherlock would have to change a lot as a person to ever look that free doing anything. A prince never gallops, he trots. He sits upon his horse with a straight back, not leaning forward, and he certainly doesn't talk to his horse about how much he missed it. And he should never be seen unrestrainedly laughing anywhere, let alone on horseback, that was for sure. John would clearly make a rubbish prince.

Well so did Sherlock, so maybe that meant they had more in common than they thought. Sherlock grinned as he watched John run circles around Jim and his hopelessly dignified rider.

The castle never would have been boring had John been there.

Sherlock never would've gotten into drugs. Never would've become a sex addict—both of which he'd hardly thought about since John came into the picture, actually.

Everything had changed since Sherlock met John, but Sherlock didn't even notice it happening.

And even now that he _did_ notice… he didn't even care.

"Come on, Sherlock, you're boring Jim," John quipped.

Sherlock glared before kicking Jim into action.

And it took about ten seconds for Sherlock's inexperience with bareback to kick in and for him to fall off. As he did so he felt a sharp pain in his arm, but he ignored it in favour of glaring at the horse. Jim was just standing there calmly, looking at Sherlock like he felt sorry for him. Sherlock had a mad theory (that he would never utter aloud) that the horse did it on purpose.

"Oh, shit, Sherlock!" John jumped off Charles and ran over to him.

"John, I'm completely fine," Sherlock grumbled, starting to get up. "Do calm down, won't you?"

"Sherlock, you're bleeding."

Sherlock looked down and saw that he had cut his forearm on a rather nasty nail that had been sticking out of a broken… something. Maybe a wheelbarrow?

"Ah. So I am." He wanted to pretend it wasn't a big deal, but a cut from something that dirty could easily get infected no matter how small it was.

Clearly John already knew that. "I'm going to get a first aid kit."

"I can get it myself, John," Sherlock said exasperatedly, but John completely ignored him. John then picked up the piece of wood with the nail sticking out of it.

"You stay right there," John instructed before jogging to the house to dispose of the offending wood plank and grab a first aid kit.

Sherlock shucked off his coat and rolled up his sleeve to look at the cut. It wasn't bad. It didn't need stiches or anything. But cleaning it wouldn't go amiss.

John was back quickly, since he was running. Sherlock rolled his eyes. So dramatic.

John knelt down in front of Sherlock and started shuffling through the kit.

"John, for goodness' sake, I can clean my own wound."

John looked up to Sherlock and smiled. "I know you can. Nobody's doubting your abilities. I just want to do this for you."

Sherlock kept looking at John probingly, but stopped making a fuss, so John began cleaning the cut. He worked quickly—he'd clearly done this many times before, same as Sherlock, but his hands were gentle in a way Sherlock could never manage. Sherlock watched John's face the whole time, watched how calm he was as he worked.

"I somehow thought," John started, still looking at the cut rather than Sherlock, "that you would watch my every move to make sure I was doing it right."

"I trust you," Sherlock replied before he even realised he was saying it.

John paused in wrapping a bandage around Sherlock's arm to meet his eyes and smile. It was different than usual—soft. Had implications of countless unsaid things.

"Dr. Watson," Sherlock added with a smirk to break the tension.

It worked, because John rolled his eyes and refocused on wrapping.

"There," he said after a moment as he reviewed his work. "Now we're even."

Was that what this was about? Belatedly thanking Sherlock for fixing him up after their first—but definitely not last—fight with hooligans? What a silly man he was.

"You think I'll live, doctor?" asked Sherlock seriously.

"Well, the wound shouldn't kill you, but I might," John countered nonchalantly.

"You wouldn't do that," Sherlock said. "I'm too much fun."

"If you say so," John said, but he didn't get up. Now that he wasn't dressing a wound, the way he was leaning over Sherlock, perched on his haunches in between Sherlock's spread legs… well, it was a little intimate.

He seemed to notice this suddenly, looking at Sherlock again—but this time with a long glance up and down Sherlock's body, which was uncustomarily not covered by a giant coat.

Sherlock had never seen John look at him that way before.

Sherlock objectified John fairly frequently. He had been since the day they met, but John graciously never mentioned it. Sherlock had figured John had lost all physical interest in Sherlock since that first night. That Sherlock had truly made such an arse of himself that he could never make up for it.

But here John was, checking him out.

But this look was different than any he'd ever gotten from someone before. Like John was looking at Sherlock's body but was seeing something intangible—if Sherlock believed in rubbish like a soul, maybe he'd think John was seeing something like that. Seeing the aura of him, the essence of him… and he was pleased with it.

He liked Sherlock. Even though nobody liked Sherlock.

And Sherlock liked him. Even though Sherlock didn't like anyone.

And in that moment, Sherlock tried to see like John for once. To look at John and see not his body, but something deeper than that. Sherlock felt silly at first, but then he almost felt like he really could see it—like he looked at John and saw all the things he liked about him. His bravery, his sarcasm, his temper… even his compassion. Sherlock had never appreciated a trait like that before he saw it in John. Because John's compassion was what made him learn to love Sherlock.

Well, maybe not love.

Or maybe…

"John—"

"Sherlock—"

They both said it at the same time, which made them both chuckle.

"Go ahead," John said.

Sherlock looked at John, suddenly not even sure what he was going to say in the first place.

And Sherlock _always_ knew what he was going to say.

In that moment, some things clicked into place in Sherlock's head. Things he'd never dared think before, that had scared him too much… but now it didn't matter.

And so Sherlock lunged forward, took John's face in his hands, and kissed him.


	13. Chapter 13

Getting kissed by Sherlock was not on John's to-do list for that day.

But holy hell, it really should have been.

Because of Sherlock's antisocial personality, it was easy to forget that he was even more experienced sexually than John was.

Not that it started out hot and heavy. If it had, John probably would've pushed Sherlock away with flashbacks of their first meeting and mutterings of people not being sexual objects.

No, it started… startlingly sweet, actually. He never imagined Sherlock could be gentle that way.

It was just a quick kiss at first and Sherlock backed away to look in John's eyes—to make sure it was okay. But honestly, even if John weren't into it—which he _definitely_ was—having Sherlock's hand on his neck and his thumb rubbing his cheek and his eyes all, you know, like _that_ … well, who could say no to that?

So after a dazed moment where John tried to soak in every detail of Sherlock's face so he could brand it to his memory, John jumped forward, both of his arms wrapping around Sherlock's neck. The force of their collision made Sherlock's back hit the ground, John firmly on top of him, but neither of them seemed to mind the change in position. Sherlock's tongue pushed into John's mouth and John let out a low groan.

He almost had a feeling of déjà vu suddenly, like he'd dreamed this before. Probably he'd dreamed it lots of times, now that he really thought about it.

Because even though John had been afraid to admit it for a long time now, he was crazy about Sherlock.

And that's when he disconnected. He smiled down at Sherlock, who smiled too. "Get a little excited, did you?" asked Sherlock. They both sat up.

"Uh. Yeah, a little."

Sherlock swooped in for another quick peck. "I've wanted to kiss you for ages," he admitted.

"I know. Remember how we met?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, that night I wanted to fuck you. I'd hoped to avoid kissing if I could. This is different."

John grinned. "So this isn't just a long con to get into these fine-ass pants?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I could fuck anyone anytime if I wanted to. I would never wait this long for a quick lay."

"I'm a pretty fantastic lay though."

"Don't tempt me."

They smiled again and John stood up, holding out a hand for Sherlock to take. He actually accepted it for once. Sherlock bent over to pick up his coat, at which point John saw Sherlock's back and snorted. He was covered in dirt and hay.

Sherlock turned. "What's so funny?"

John walked around him and started brushing off his back, taking longer than necessary on his ass just for the hell of it. Then he ruffled the back of Sherlock's curls to clear away the last of the filth.

"Good as new," John said.

"Oh, thank goodness, I never would've managed alone," Sherlock said.

John ignored him, taking his hand. Now that he'd touched Sherlock, he was pretty certain he never wanted to stop. "Come on. Let's go back inside."

* * *

John knew how melodramatic it sounded, but the Thanksgiving break might've been the best week of his life. Sure, he had a lot of homework to get done, but Sherlock was there too, and they stopped to make out at nice intervals. And now Greg had the guest bedroom because Sherlock was staying in John's room.

And no, they weren't having sex.

John was glad for that. After the amount of time Sherlock had spent being addicted to sex and repelled by the thought of anything more than that, he didn't want to rush the physical stuff. Sherlock needed to get used to the romance before they started fucking, John figured.

So Sherlock would lie in bed with him, and the two would face each other and just talk.

Sherlock told a few more details about life at home. Sherlock really must've been loaded—John knew he was rich, but Jesus, some of the things he was able to do in childhood were even beyond normal rich people.

And he was hearing a little more about this brother that had never been mentioned before. He was severely overweight, apparently, and also very into politics. Sherlock spoke about him in a distasteful manner but something about this brother of his sounded an awful lot like Sherlock.

John talked a little about his life too, and for once Sherlock didn't say that he already knew it. He seemed interested in hearing about it from John's perspective.

If Sherlock wasn't careful he was going to turn nice.

* * *

It was Thanksgiving Day. For once, Sherlock hadn't been wishing a holiday to go by faster out of boredom… he was actually having a nice time. Giving into his feelings for John was the best idea he ever had. Holding them back had been annoying anyway, and a bit distracting.

Lestrade was smug though, and it was beyond irritating. He kept insisting that he saw this coming ages ago. Sherlock almost mentioned that he'd seen Lestrade's 'friendship' with Mycroft ages ago too, but Lestrade was under the impression that he was being sly about it and Sherlock was in too good of a mood to be mean intentionally.

Meeting John's extended family was tedious, but made much better by the fact that John was barely more enthusiastic about it than Sherlock was. They were… kind of mean, actually. In a stupid way, where they didn't even realise they were being unkind.

"Still having that doctor pipe-dream, are you, Johnny?"

"Well I'm in my last year of undergrad. I've applied to Varhard Medical School already and will know if I've got an interview by January."

"Varhard, huh? Ambitious of you."

"I've applied to other places as well, but I really hope to go to Varhard. I've been working hard to get there for a long time."

"You're getting a little too old to dream, Johnny boy. You can't work at a bar forever."

It seemed wildly unfair to Sherlock. He'd already gotten in to Fanstord as an undergraduate, which is an accomplishment in itself. He had great marks. Why was getting into VMS such an impossibility? Nobody seemed to give John any credit other than his mother—who did try to defend him on several occasions.

Sherlock never thought he would be defending the intelligence of someone else in his life, but he couldn't help but be frustrated by the whole thing. Sherlock got into Fanstord at least partially because of his royal status, surely. They probably barely looked at his application. But John had to get in on merit alone. He really deserved this and everyone just gave him a hard time.

John didn't seem to mind though. Sherlock imagined he couldn't wait to prove everyone wrong and rub it in their faces.

"Should've joined the military is what you should've done."

"I still could. The military needs doctors. I'm not against that idea at all."

They didn't seem impressed by his one attempt at a compromise.

Sherlock managed to get through the meal without hitting any of the relatives over the head. He considered that quite an accomplishment.

Speaking of relatives—

"My brother's calling," he hissed in John's ear. "I'll take it outside."

"Sure, okay," John whispered back.

The call in itself was strange because it was the middle of the night in Copenhagen. It would have been easy to call at a more decent time, but he waited this long? Definitely strange.

Sherlock went outside and stared at the barn.

"Hello _blood_ ," Sherlock said mockingly. He didn't realise he was speaking English—he hadn't spoken Danish in long enough that English just came out naturally.

But Mycroft didn't respond.

"Mycroft, for god's sake, if you're going to waste my time, at least say something. Did you manage to fat-fold dial—"

But then Sherlock stopped. He suddenly felt sure someone was standing behind him.

And then that someone spoke, before Sherlock even had a chance to turn.

"Hello, brother mine."


	14. Chapter 14

**Confession time: When I posted the first chapter of this story, I was already done with seven. I was posting chapters one by one at intervals of "I CAN'T WAIT ANY LONGER TOO EXCITED GIVE THEM THE NEXT CHAPTER" whilst I finished.**

 **Well I finished. And I don't see the point in waiting any longer. So I will post all the rest of the rest of the chapters at once.**

 **You're welcome, and I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Sherlock quickly turned and his jaw dropped. Well, this was his brother. It had to be. But dear god did he look different. He was at least fifty kilos lighter—but likely closer to a hundred. He wasn't as thin as Sherlock, but he was pretty much unrecognizable compared to what he was before. He was wearing a very posh suit, had his hair done nicely—if Sherlock didn't know any better, he'd think Mycroft gained a bit of confidence.

After many months without seeing his only sibling, all Sherlock had to say was: "What, did you get surgery?"

Mycroft gave a tight lipped smile. "A pleasure, as always, little brother."

"But really—" Sherlock insisted

"No, I did not get surgery," Mycroft said impatiently. "Just a very good personal trainer and a strong desire not to die."

Well, that much was obvious. Only sheer force of will could take off that much weight that quickly.

But that wasn't really the point, was it? "What're you doing here?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, I just wanted to see you mingle with the common folk. Look at you, in the country. How _quaint_."

"Mycroft, seriously, _what_ are you doing here?"

"Shouldn't uni make you quicker, not slower? That should be rather obvious." Sherlock glared, frustrated at his lack of comprehension. "As you can see," Mycroft continued, "I am doing much better."

"A few months of diet can't cure a life-threatening illness," Sherlock immediately argued.

"Quite true, dear brother, but you never actually asked me what was wrong, did you? I was only at risk for said disease. I have lessened the risk considerably. I feel better than I ever have."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that you shouldn't need to ascend to the throne after all, which means your banishment is no longer required. Plus, Mummy misses you."

Sherlock stared wordlessly at Mycroft, purposefully refusing to understand what he was saying.

But Mycroft didn't allow that. He made his meaning clear as day when he said, "I'm here to take you home. Not like it was very good as a punishment anyway, seeing as you found a live-in sexual partner."

Clearly Lestrade was not being completely forthcoming about Sherlock's relationship, if Mycroft had made such an inaccurate assumption. Or maybe Mycroft was judging from past experience. Not like he had any reason to assume Sherlock had gone soft.

But no matter what Mycroft thought, it didn't change the fact that he was wrong.

And in all honesty, Sherlock hadn't considered wanting to go home in months now. Denmark hardly even was home to him anymore—it was the place he happened to live for most of his life.

He didn't want to go anywhere that John couldn't follow.

Mycroft's expression was starting to show understanding now—whatever look Sherlock had on his face did not seem very enthused, clearly.

He gave a low chuckle. " _Sher_ lock. Come on. If you found you prefer consistency to one night stands, I'm sure you could find—"

"Mycroft, this isn't about sex."

"It's always about sex with you, even if your mind has told you it isn't."

Sherlock wasn't going to say it, but then he couldn't help it. "I've not even slept with him, Mycroft."

Mycroft's eyebrows made it almost all the way to his hairline. "You don't seriously mean to tell me that John Watson—"

"Yes, that's what I mean to tell you," Sherlock snapped. "I'm not going back. I'm staying here with him. You can take your dear Lestrade back with you to be your future queen, if that changes anything."

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably. "This has nothing to do with Gregory Lestrade. You have responsibilities to your country, Sherlock—"

"Ones I never fulfilled anyway. So who cares?"

"Sherlock—"

"I'm not going, Mycroft. I'm not leaving him."

And just then, the door opened and out stepped John. He looked at Mycroft with eyebrows together, then to Sherlock. "Sherlock, what's going on? Who's this?"

"John, go inside, I'll explain in a—"

"No, no, Sherlock, don't bother. I was just leaving," Mycroft said. "Nice to finally see you in the flesh, John." John blinked at Mycroft and his stance got stiff, like he was ready for a fight, but he said nothing. Mycroft then looked to Sherlock and slipped into Danish. _"I'll be in Fanstord for the next week. If you change your mind, you'll know where to find me."_

And he started walking down the dirt drive.

Neither Sherlock nor John spoke until he had reached his sleek black car and got into the back seat.

"Sherlock—"

"My brother Mycroft."

John gaped at Sherlock. "Your brother came from _Denmark_ to talk to you for a moment?"

"Apparently."

He went to go inside, but John stood in his way. "Sherlock, something's going on."

"Yes, Mycroft's being insufferable, as per usual."

"But what did he want?" John insisted.

Sherlock looked at John's worried face and imagined being apart from him.

Impossible. Mycroft could stay in Fanstord for the next year and Sherlock wouldn't change his mind on that. John mattered more to him than all of Denmark. Than the work. Than anything. Sherlock didn't realise he was capable of feeling this way about a person, but now that he did, he was never going to give it up. "Doesn't matter. He's never getting it."

And at that he went inside.


	15. Chapter 15

John tried not to think about the strange encounter he'd had with Sherlock's brother, but it came to mind a lot. Because there was no way the guy came from Denmark to talk for five minutes. Which meant Sherlock was hiding something from him and John didn't like the thought of something Sherlock would hide from him. He was a man without shame. Anything that could be bad enough to merit keeping it a secret really couldn't be good.

But Sherlock absolutely refused to talk about it. After about a day John gave up asking. He just enjoyed his last couple days with his mom before he had to go back to school. They made the drive early on Sunday so they got back to Fanstord a little past noon. And at that point, John had more important things to think about than Sherlock's mysterious brother. Like how Sherlock had been such a distraction over the break that he wasn't quite done with his homework. He was close, but he probably had another hour of work to do.

Sherlock made that very, _very_ difficult.

See, Sherlock really was not a huge fan of studying.

Sherlock already knew everything, apparently. Which sure, John could believe that, but you'd think a college like Fanstord could teach him at least one new bit of information. But if it had, he was hiding that fact from John.

So when John wanted to get some work done the day before break was going to end, Sherlock sat with him at the library and complained endlessly about his boredom.

"I could just do your homework for you."

"That defeats the purpose, because then I don't learn it."

"Come on, you don't already know all this?"

John glared at Sherlock. "No. I don't. So why don't you shut the fuck up and let me finish?"

"Joooooohn—"

"I'll kick you out of this library," John warned.

Sherlock was quiet for thirty whole seconds—he not only didn't talk, but he didn't groan or sigh either. It was definitely a record, and John savored the quiet that was only punctuated with the pouring rain ripping against the window.

"Okay, what about this."

" _Sherlock_ —"

"You take a little break and we snog in the stacks."

That made John pause for a moment.

Well. A quick make out behind some bookshelves never hurt anything.

John pretended to be reluctant as he stuck his laptop back in his bag. "Alright. Two minutes."

Sherlock stood and started tugging John deeper into the library. "May need longer."

They ended up in the British Literature section and Sherlock pushed John up against a shelf of Shakespeare, knocking a copy of _Hamlet_ to the floor. _Also a Dane, just a royal one_ , John thought with a smirk.

But pretty quickly he didn't have princes of Denmark on his mind because Sherlock was upon him. His hands were greedy and insistent, but his lips were leisurely, like he wanted to feel out every inch of John's mouth.

Then he started kissing down his chin so he could lick across his jaw and nibble on his ear. "Jesus, Sherlock," John whisper-moaned, hoping to god nobody was going to have a sudden hankering to pick up a copy of Othello. "I said two minutes."

"And I told you I might need longer," Sherlock growled into his ear.

"My homework still needs to get done."

"I promise I'll leave you alone for a whole hour later. Two, if you want."

John didn't mention that he didn't actually want Sherlock to _leave_ , he just wanted him to shut up, because it occurred to him that Sherlock might not be capable.

"In exchange for what?"

"You letting me give you head." Sherlock was already unbuttoning John's pants.

"What, here? _Now_?"

"Sure. Who would come to this section?" He kissed up and down John's neck as he stuck a hand into John's boxers.

"Who—nghh _god_ —who _wouldn't_?" John countered. "It's not like we're in the— _fuck_ —the encyclopedia stack."

Sherlock was at his ear again. "Nobody's going to—"

And right around then was when someone came around the corner. John's first thought was _get Sherlock's hand out of pants and pretend I fell over and this nice fellow was helping me up yeah that'll totally work_.

But then he noticed something about the person that had caught them that made him freeze in confusion.

The person had a camera and was taking pictures.

"Oh _shit_ ," Sherlock said, sounding very unlike himself as he passionately cursed.

Out of nowhere, there was Greg. "Oi, you, quit it!" he snapped, waving away the girl with the camera. He then turned to Sherlock. "You've done it now, you idiot," he said venomously. "Get John out of here. I'll deal with her."

Sherlock nodded and started pulling John towards the exit. He barely had time to grab his bag from the ground and didn't even bother to re-button his jeans as he was dragged.

They got outside and Sherlock continued to pull John through the downpour without giving him a moment to grab his umbrella.

Finally, John couldn't take Sherlock's silence, his manic face. He planted his feet and set his jaw, and Sherlock didn't notice until the object he was pulling quit moving. He turned around.

"Sherlock, tell me what the fuck is going on. Why would that girl want a picture of us?"

Sherlock stood in front of John, hair plastered to the front of his face and eyes wide with… he looked _afraid_. _Nothing_ scared Sherlock. John didn't like this one bit.

"Sherlock, you know. You always know. _Tell_ _me_."

* * *

No. This couldn't be happening. He never thought paparazzi would find him all the way out here. His parents were making a point to try to keep this whole thing secret—how did they find him, _how_?

Sherlock wondered for a moment if it was Mycroft. Possible, but not likely. He didn't go out of his way to be cruel usually. Not his style.

Only conclusion, unsatisfying as it was: paparazzi just knew things. It was their job to find the juicy details—and this one had clearly done that. Sherlock could see the headlines now: "The Prince Is At It Again: American Style!"

This would make the papers. Not just the Danish ones. All of them.

Even the ones John would see.

And even if John didn't read the papers, some friend (or acquaintance or enemy or anyone who saw him on the street) would let him know that he was on the cover of today's _National Enquirer_.

Sherlock had, for just a moment, had faith in Lestrade, but that was dashed with a text message.

 _She got away. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll talk to Mycroft, but I think it's too late._

Sherlock should've followed the girl himself and had Lestrade take John outside—stupid, _stupid_ —but it was too late for that now.

Sherlock had no choice. He had to tell John.

So he kept staring at John as the rain finally seeped through his last layer of clothes and he resisted the urge to shudder from the cold. "John. There's something I need to tell you."

"Clearly," John agreed. Sherlock looked John over then. His blond hair and gray shirt had gone brown and black, respectively, from the water and the darkness didn't suit him. He looked tired. Really tired.

And like he'd seen this coming. Ever since he saw Mycroft—actually, maybe even before that, since Sherlock got caught getting his stories mixed up on the first day of Thanksgiving holiday (because he'd never mentioned Mycroft to John and then managed to forget that crucial fact) John had been waiting for the big reveal. The thing Sherlock was hiding.

John was too honest of a man not to be upset about this. Sherlock didn't know how he was going to react, but he knew it wouldn't be good.

Sherlock had to be delicate, but clear. Sugar coating or beating around the bush wouldn't help him right now.

He took a deep breath.

"My name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. My father is Edvard Mycroft William Holmes… but only a select few people know him by that name. To most, he is William II… the King of Denmark." John just stared, the cogs in his head turning—slowly but surely.

A long moment passed before John haltingly said, "Which… makes you…"

"Yes. A prince."


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock didn't like John's catatonic state—because he had seen it before and sometimes, when he snapped out of it, he started swinging his fists at the closest person. Sherlock resisted the urge to go back a step.

Sherlock kept talking, since clearly John wasn't going to. "I'm not even the crown prince. That's my brother. The only way I would ever get the throne is if Mycroft dies before he's able to create an heir."

Which Sherlock realised as he spoke was a distinct possibility, if Mycroft's tastes in partner were as specific as Sherlock's.

But Sherlock definitely wasn't going to mention that at present.

Finally, John's mouth curved into a smile as he let out a dark snicker, nodding to himself.

Uh oh. Not good. _Not_. _Good_.

John looked up to Sherlock and all that could be heard over the rain was John's grinding teeth. "Well," he finally said, his voice casual. "I really should've known. You always acted like a spoiled prince."

Sherlock wasn't fooled by John making a joke. John was furious.

"John—" Sherlock started.

"So it never occurred to you, even once, that I deserved to know this?"

Sherlock looked down at him helplessly and said in a weak voice, "It was a secret."

"It was a secret," John repeated. "Right. A big ol' secret that you couldn't tell your best—your _only_ —friend. Right."

"I wasn't supposed to tell anyone, John!"

"Yeah okay, I admit, not telling me last week almost makes sense. Last week, this might have been funny. But now? Now that we just got our picture taken with your hand down my pants and it's going to end up on who knows how many people's doorsteps? It's not funny anymore, Sherlock."

"J—"

"If I had known, I would've been more careful. What, did you think I was gonna tell people?" He stopped to let out an incredulous chuckle. "You did, didn't you? You thought I'd have a big mouth."

Sherlock didn't respond quickly enough.

"Fuck you, man." He started to turn.

"No, John, listen. I just… I didn't tell you because I needed you to be honest with me. Nobody ever is. You don't know what it's like for nobody to ever tell you what they really think, John. When you're royal—"

"Yes, you must've had such a hard life, Your _Highness_."

Sherlock took a step forward, taking John's arm gently. John looked ready to yank it out any moment, but didn't yet. Sherlock thought that was an inkling of a good sign, so he spoke. "John, please. Just… try to understand. I've never had a single person ever try to get to know me before. I acted like a child because nobody would ever tell me the truth about how much they hated me and I hated them for lying to my face every single day and wanted to make them pay for it. But then I came here and you… you're honest with me. You're real, and you like me for me, not because I'm royal. And I was… well…" He sighed. "I was _scared_ , John. I was scared you would be like everyone else once you knew. Not because I don't have faith in you, but because I had no reason to think anyone in the world can love me just as I am. Nobody had before. Why would that change now?"

John shook his head and exhaled angrily. "Because I'm not all those people. You say it's not about not having faith in me but it is. You should've known that this wouldn't change anything. You should've known that you'd still be the same annoying asshole to me." They both paused and had an urge to smirk at John's almost-joke, but neither of them actually did it because this was astronomical amounts of not-funny. John then said, his voice grave, "But instead you lied to me."

"I never told you a lie, John," Sherlock said. John scoffed loudly and did pull his arm out of Sherlock's grasp now. "I admit, it was a pretty large omission," Sherlock amended quickly, "but I never lied. I really was sent here as a punishment, I really did have a dog named Redbeard, I really wanted to be a pirate when I was little. Everything I said, everything we have, it's real. Nothing's really changed."

"It's not about whether this changes our situation. It's about the fact that you never told me. I trusted you and you clearly never trusted me."

"Please—"

"No, Sherlock, you listen to me now. It's my turn. Because you came over here, like a little vacation, and you came into my life, distracted me from my studies… all knowing you couldn't really stay. This is all fun and games for you because you can go back and be a prince whenever you want, but this is my _life_. If I fail at this, then I have to start over from scratch, and I'm too close to thirty to do that, Sherlock. You let me get distracted even though you know how important this is to me—you let me _fall_ for you, for fuck's sake—when you knew you eventually were going to leave."

Sherlock said the next thing before considering how angry it would make John. "Even without the whole prince business, there was always a possibility I'd be called back, you must've realized that."

"Oh, so now it's my fault because I didn't deduce that you might disappear one day?" he snapped venomously. Before Sherlock could desperately backtrack, John's eyes widened in realization. "That's what your brother's doing here. He's here to take you home."

Sherlock rather hoped John wouldn't make that connection. "I told him no. I told him I wouldn't leave you."

Sherlock thought maybe the sentimental nature of the sentence would soften John a little.

He was wrong.

"You have a responsibility to your people, Sherlock! You can't just stay and play romance with me for the rest of your life!"

"I was a rubbish prince anyway," Sherlock said feebly, feeling like he was standing on a cliff that was crumbling away beneath him.

"No, Sherlock. Enough. No more playing 'house' for you." He shook his head and looked at the sky, not seeming to mind the rain in his eyes. "You know, it's funny. I was starting to feel like none of this was real. Like it was all a dream. That I was stupid to believe I could find someone this perfect for me." John looked to Sherlock again. "I guess somewhere inside I always knew I couldn't keep you."

"You can, John. You _can_ keep me. Always." And then Sherlock uttered a sentence that he never thought he would, said it without a moment's hesitation. "I love you."

But Sherlock knew before John spoke what he was going to say. His expression was too steely. Not even a declaration like that could soften his heart, not right now.

John had no problem meeting Sherlock's eyes as he said, "Do me a favour and go home. Go home and let me get back to my life. Quit being a child and be the prince your people deserve. If you really love me, do that for me."

The next mystery Sherlock would have to solve was finding out where his lungs had gone, because he couldn't breathe. Looking at that face, that face that held no indecision as he told Sherlock to leave and never come back. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to defend himself anymore. Not when he saw that dead look in John's eyes. Sherlock had admitted he loved John and John looked at him with no sign of sentimentality. Nothing but bitterness.

It was over. It was all just a dream.

And John turned on his heel and walked away—not towards the dorm. Didn't matter where.

It only mattered that Sherlock couldn't follow.


	17. Chapter 17

John was always very good at focusing when he was angry. So since he was more furious than he had been in his whole life, he got his hour's worth of work done in twenty minutes.

He'd sat under an awning instead of getting out of the rain because the rain felt right, somehow. And now that he finished his work he could sit and brood, which was always better with a downpour a few inches in front of you.

 _I love you._

Sherlock had said he loved John.

Would Sherlock have said anything at all in that moment to keep John from walking away? Could John ever trust Sherlock again after a giant lie like that?

This was crazy. It was already crazy, when he started to fall for someone he barely knew. When he learned to trust someone when he never trusted anyone.

And now the man he maybe loved back was royalty. Not some cousin of a king twice removed—a prince. One person in the way of him being the motherfucking heir to the motherfucking throne of a country—a country John had heard of too.

John got out his phone and typed in Sherlock's full name, as he'd told it to him. William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

When you typed in John's name, you got a link to his Facebook account. But not Sherlock. He got one of those sidebar squares, the one famous people got. There was a big picture of him, with his coat and scarf and scowl all in place. Greg's shoulder and part of the side of his head could be seen on the left side of the photo. There were lots of other photos, featured a bit smaller, and there was a link. _More photos_.

His little square of fame said:

 _Prince William of Denmark, RE, SKmd is the younger son of King William II and Queen Else of Denmark. Wikipedia_

 ** _Born:_** _January 6, 1992 (age 23), Copenhagen, Denmark_

 ** _Siblings:_** _ Mycroft, Crown Prince of Denmark_

 ** _Parents:_** _ King William II of Denmark, Queen Else of Denmark_

John started clicking on articles. Scandal after scandal, mostly involving having sex with the wrong person at the wrong time.

Then there was one about how the prince had vanished from Denmark but none of the royal family would comment on it.

There was also one about Mycroft recently losing a bunch of weight, at which point John ended up on his Wikipedia page. **Full name** : Mycroft Edvard William Holmes. _Mycroft, Crown Prince of Denmark, RE, SKmd is the heir apparent to the throne of Denmark._ The picture of Wikipedia was one of him much heavier than the man John had seen a couple days ago. **Born:** October 17, 1978 (age 37),  Copenhagen, Denmark.

John suddenly felt really stupid. How could he know so little about the world that it never occurred to him that he was hanging around royalty? The internet knew all about him, from his sexual partners to his brother's miracle diet.

And tomorrow there'd be another article—this time about Prince William's American beau. He'd just be another of Sherlock's scandals. Nobody would look at the picture and suspect there was something more. To the world he would be a quick fuck. A one night stand, a dine and dash, a hit and run—

John's arm lashed out and he hit the brick wall he was leaning against with the side of his fist.

"Damn it!" he barked at the air.

This was stupid. He couldn't have been imagining what they had, he just _couldn't_.

 _I love you._

Sherlock had meant that. John knew in his heart that he meant that. Sherlock hadn't meant to hurt John. What would John have done in Sherlock's place? After so long of lying, could he have really brought himself to be honest?

 _I've never had a single person ever try to get to know me before._

 _You're real, and you like me for me, not because I'm royal._

Nobody had ever been honest with Sherlock before. That night when John told Sherlock off, that was possibly the first time in his life he had ever been told off. And he'd _appreciated_ that. Because being lied to for so long was exhausting. Was frustrating.

John wanted his anger to keep burning but it went like he'd set its flame in the rain—didn't stand a chance. John understood. He really did.

But the thing was, it didn't matter if John could bring himself to forgive Sherlock—which he could, he was quickly realizing. It was bigger than that now. Because Sherlock was a prince, but it wasn't like in the movies where they just sat around doing nothing. Princes had obligations. They were part of the way the government functioned. Sherlock had been neglecting those duties his whole life, but John really believed Sherlock had changed since he got here. John said that if Sherlock loved him, he'd go back and be the prince he people deserved. And Sherlock did love John, so he'd do that. John knew that.

And John couldn't take their prince away. It just wasn't right. He was too small, too insignificant, to be worth that.

But then he quickly stood up. Sure, he had to let Sherlock go. But he couldn't let him leave when he thought John was still pissed. No way. That was not a goodbye John could live with.

Then John made a deduction worthy of Sherlock Holmes—or His Princelyness William Sherlock Scott Holmes of Sexy-Accent-Land, whatever.

Mycroft couldn't have left yet. If what Sherlock had said about him was true, he wasn't the type to give up that easily. He must've been in Fanstord. When John told Sherlock to go home, he must've gone to his brother.

And his brother had to be at a hotel. Probably the hotel closest to campus.

Which meant John knew where Sherlock was.

John took out his phone so fast he almost dropped it.

 _Sherlock don't leave yet I have to talk to you I'm not mad just stay where you are_

He typed it out too quickly for punctuation and then started sprinting for the hotel, not knowing whether or not Sherlock had responded as he ran.

When he got there, he saw a sleek black car he recognized pulling out of the lot.

"Wait!" he called, running after it.

The car stopped and he caught up, trying the door in his haste to speak to Sherlock, but it was locked. Then the window rolled down just a little. John had only seen the man in person once, but recognized him easily from a recent Google search. Mycroft.

And behind him he could see a silhouette—someone else was in the back seat with him. "Sherlock, wait!"

"Nice to see you again, John," Mycroft said. And then the window went up and the car drove away.

" _Wait_!" John hollered, but too late. It was gone.

Sherlock hadn't even tried to speak to him.

But then John really thought about it. John had said horrible things. Sherlock had opened up his heart—for the first and possibly last time—and John had thrown it back in his face, told him to get lost.

Of course Sherlock was hurt.

But this wasn't a little fight they could make up from later. John would never see Sherlock again in his life. It couldn't end like this, not after everything.

John texted him again.

 _Sherlock just turn around for a second please_ and waited for a response, but after ten seconds realized he wasn't going to get one.

He stood dejectedly in the middle of the street for a long moment. The rain had finally let up, but that seemed wrong somehow. It should definitely still be pouring—John's whole world should have been flooding.

Well, John would get his wish. He could get back to his life now.

John's fists clenched hard and he bit on the side of his cheek. Gone. He was gone.

John made his way back to the dorm, his feet heavy and his chest empty.


	18. Chapter 18

John trudged up the steps to his room, readying himself for a reminder of his mistake when he saw all of Sherlock's things there abandoned. Or maybe they'd be gone? Maybe royalty had the resources to pack in an hour.

Would Howard take the room back now if John asked? Probably. His only offense to it was Sherlock's presence, after all. Then John could move back in with Mike and it really would be like this never happened.

John's eyes burned at the thought and he clamped his teeth harder around the section of his cheek that he was gnawing on to keep the emotions at bay. He tasted iron that time.

When he opened the door, the first thing he noticed was Sherlock's phone, shattered on the floor right in front of the doorway.

And then he saw Sherlock, standing in the middle of the room waiting for him.

"Oh thank god!" John gasped, running forward and squeezing Sherlock for dear life.

Sherlock was stiff against him. "I had written a monologue in order to start garnering your forgiveness. Apparently it was unnecessary."

"Oh no, it's necessary. It's so necessary. I could kill you right now. I'm just glad you aren't gone."

"Gone? That would be rather quick, don't you think?"

John backed up just enough to look at Sherlock, but didn't let go—fuck _no_ he wasn't letting go; Sherlock might vanish like the perfect pipe-dream he was. "I saw Mycroft on the way out of town, and I saw someone else in the car, but he wouldn't look at me and I thought—"

"It was Lestrade. He's leaving. Going to fulfill his dream of becoming Detective Inspector, I imagine."

John had half a second to be a little disappointed, since he liked Greg and would miss him, but then he got back to the part that mattered. "But you're still here. I told you to scram."

"Yes, you did," Sherlock agreed. "At which point I immediately started figuring out a plan in which you could focus on your studies, I could be the prince you want me to be, and we can be together all at once. I didn't know how long it would take for you to forgive me but I was going to keep trying until it worked. I told Mycroft already and I'll say it again: I'm not leaving you. Not ever."

John grinned and put his head back into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's body finally responded, his arms winding around John and his head leaning against the top of John's head.

"What did you do to your phone, you moron?" John asked, his voice muffled in Sherlock's scarf.

Sherlock snorted out a quick laugh. "Oh, that. Yes, well I was a bit upset and my phone got the brunt of that displeasure."

"Well if you hadn't done that, you'd have gotten my texts and you wouldn't have needed to be upset for nearly as long."

Sherlock ignored him and continued talking. "Then I realized that I was being irrational and I needed to start thinking up my plan and that damaging expensive technology wouldn't help at all."

"Yes, this perfect plan of yours," John muttered, this time separating completely—but keeping Sherlock's hand in his. "Supposing I forgive you for being a lying dickhead, I'd like to know the details of this plan."

Sherlock's mouth twitched up at the corner. "Alright, well it goes like this. I stay in America while you finish up medical school, and in the meantime work towards my Chemistry degree. I'll transfer to Varhard—they'll definitely take the prince of Denmark—and we'll get a nice flat together. I'll take a very heavy load of classes so that I'm gone often enough that you can get your work done. Because of my heavy workload, I'll get through my undergraduate in probably two years, so then I'll go for my Master's just for fun. So in four years you'll be ready to start residency as a doctor and I'll be a graduate Chemist."

John looked up at Sherlock suspiciously. "Okay, that plan means I get to focus and we stay together, but that doesn't address the 'you need to go home and be a prince' bit."

"Yes, well the next part of the plan requires your approval." John pretty much knew what Sherlock was going to say next, but it still hit him like a train. "You come to Denmark with me."

John took a deep breath. Wow. Denmark.

"I know I'm not supposed to be distracting you while you're studying, but if you're going to do that, you need to spend the next four years learning Danish on the side. Pretty much everyone speaks English there but you'd be better off knowing Danish if you want to get anywhere as a doctor. Maybe I can make you the royal physician—god knows we need a replacement; Mycroft nearly died because the current one almost didn't catch his illness in time. And you'll live in the palace with me, of course, and—"

John stopped Sherlock with his lips because he was way too overwhelmed to hear anything else.

When he separated, Sherlock was still talking. "—the plan isn't perfect, it probably has a few kinks, but give me a moment; I've only been on the case for—"

John kissed him again, but the off button wasn't working.

"—I know it's a lot to think about but at very first moment do you think—"

"Sherlock!" John finally said. "Shut up and kiss me!"

"But do you approve?" he asked, his voice desperate.

John gave Sherlock a slow smile. "Well, I've only known about the plan for eight seconds, but for now, yeah. I approve."

Sherlock smiled too and John kissed him and this time Sherlock kissed him back.

John separated again. "Oh, and I love you too."

"Yes, took you long enough to respond to that."

"You should've already known, genius."

"I did. But you know it's nice to—"

"You're pissing me off again. Maybe it's time for that monologue of yours."

"Or we could kiss some more," Sherlock suggested.

John pursed his lips for a moment thoughtfully. "Okay, kiss first, monologue after. You get two minutes."

Sherlock smiled, a real smile with teeth and mirth and Sherlock had never looked this happy before. "May need longer."

* * *

 **So this story was fucking ridiculous and if you got all the way through then you are a crazy person. My kind of crazy.**

 **Thanks so much for reading. I adore reviews super a lot and I would love if you would take a tick to tell me what you thought. It would mean the world to me. Pretty please and thanks again!**


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